Lachduliel
by quillon
Summary: On his way to Minas Tirith from Henneth Annun, Faramir encounters much more than he ever thought he would. Pre-LoTR. Please R&R!
1. Flight

Disclaimer: I probably wouldn't feel the need to torture Faramir so much if he was my own character.  
  
Chapter 1  
  
The ranger's soft-booted feet propelled him through the dark, rain- soaked woods faster than he could ever remember running. His heart was pounding in his ears, his breath coming in gasps. There was a mob of orcs upon his heels, and their arrows were striking the trees around him as the branches whipped at his face. He was certain that if he was not soon felled by one of the dangerous missiles, he would collapse from exhaustion anyway, for there was no way that he could continue this rapid pace for very much longer. If only he had accepted Anborn's offer to come with him! But, no, then there would be two rangers in mortal danger instead of just himself.  
  
His borrowed mount, a fast courier horse, had shied, and Faramir had blamed the foul weather, lightning striking nearby and thunder rumbling across the landscape. But he soon learned that it was not just that, and though Faramir was a decent rider, the horse had thrown him about the time that the orcish stench had first reached his nostrils. Uninjured, Faramir had crawled into the bushes and remained hidden in the underbrush, stealth being his only hope as his ill-tempered horse bolted away, but then he realized that there were many of the enemy and they were beginning to surround his position as they marched forth. Rather than allowing them to come close enough to slash him immediately to bits when they eventually discovered him, he had silently cursed his faithless mount, and opted to run, hoping against hope that he might escape. But though he had remained nearly silent as he left the road in his attempt to flee before he was detected by the foul creatures, his advantage quickly disappeared when the orcs had managed to catch his scent on the wind. With a roar of excitement, they were after him, and he knew then that there would be little that he could do in the end to avoid his own capture.  
  
With a burst of strength that he did not know he had, the ranger managed to leap across a small stream that flowed through the trees, giving himself a few precious seconds to draw ahead of the beasts, who, in their filth, hated the water. The Man did not allow himself the small luxury of grim amusement as he heard a soft splash and then some guttural cursing coming from behind him. Running on pure adrenalin now, he leapt across another smaller stream and then turned uphill, hoping that when he reached the summit of the rocky ground, he might be able to decide a better course of action.  
  
His mistake cost him dearly, for the peak of the hill was not long after followed by a sharp drop, and Faramir had to quickly decide whether to risk the fall or the mob behind him. He chose the former, trying desperately to slow his muddy descent by scrabbling at rocks and roots as he slid on the seat of his pants toward the bottom of the wooded valley. When he was almost halfway to the bottom, his left boot struck a large rock, sending him reeling out of control the rest of the way down the steep, rocky slope. There was nothing that he could do, it seemed, but fall, and he did, his descent becoming more rapid and out of control, his body slamming again and again against the rocky outcroppings and the trunks of saplings, his whole world reduced to a seemingly endless series of bounces that knocked the air out of his lungs. At last, dazed, battered and bleeding, he landed in a dizzy heap at the bottom and lay there for an unknown length of time just trying to figure out which way was up.  
  
Life was cruel, he knew. But through this cruelty, he had temporarily lost the orcs that had been threatening his life. He lay still, working to catch his breath, while at the same time cataloguing his injuries. His left ankle felt, not surprisingly, quite uncomfortable, and he grimaced as he tried to move the offending joint, finding that was broken. His head swum with pain, and Faramir groaned as he realized that when the orcs finally did manage to pick their way down the slope, he would probably yet be here, unable now even to walk, let alone run. Luckily, all of his other injuries were mostly minor cuts and bruises, but that didn't matter if he had been rendered immobile.

Amazingly his longbow, which was still slung across his back, remained intact, and he took heart when he realized that he could use it as a sort of walking stick until something better could be arranged. As rapidly as his abused body would allow it, he stood, balancing on his right foot, letting the dizziness in his head abate a bit before he carefully shifted his weight to the bow and then took a shaky, hopping step. Though it was somewhat painful and very slow, it would serve.  
  
Shuffling westward toward the River Anduin, he laughed bitterly, thinking how astounding it was that only this morning he had been at Henneth Annûn with his men, relatively safe, in this, the most unsafe of times. He had broken his fast on porridge with honey, looking forward to returning to Minas Tirith, despite the fact that he would have to face his father's wrathful indifference once again as he delivered his report to the steward. But it would be worth it just to see Boromir's face. It had been nearly six months since the brothers had seen each other, and Faramir very much missed Boromir's charismatic presence in his life.  
  
"Are you certain that you do not wish for me to accompany you, Lieutenant?" asked Anborn, Faramir's assistant for these past six months, as Faramir was making final preparations to leave the outpost.  
  
"Quite certain, Anborn. The journey to the White City is an easy one. Instead, you should enjoy your time apart from me, for it shall not oft happen! We are almost now like to an old married couple," he laughed, "so you should enjoy your time alone, for I should not be gone for longer than two weeks or so."  
  
Anborn nodded, smiling. "Aye, dear," he teased, "it shall be good to have a bit of freedom for a change!"  
  
The other men laughed at this good-natured humor, since indeed Anborn and Faramir were never far from each other, and as a joke, they had taken to calling each other by various endearments that would normally be reserved for a sweetheart or wife.  
  
"Indeed, honey," laughed Faramir, before he had mounted and set out upon his journey. But now, as night was falling, he was uncertain of where he was, he was injured, and he had a large band of orcs somewhere behind him, and he was certain that they would find their way down the hill and reach him eventually.  
  
The rain continued throughout the night, and Faramir had paused for nothing as he prayed that the water might have obscured his trail somewhat as he slowly hobbled through the underbrush. He knew, though, that he hadn't made much progress, and at dawn, to his consternation, he could once again hear the orcs approaching his position. Though he had continued his forward movement, in less than an hour he knew that they were almost upon him, and he dropped his now useless bow, since he had lost all of his arrows upon the hill. Drawing his sword, he prayed to the Valar that his death would be swift and painless.  
  
As the orcs crashed through the underbrush on their way toward him, he called out the name of the one person in the world whom he loved above all others before he began slashing and hacking his way through the throng.  
  
"Boromir!" he cried, wanting his brother's name to be the last word upon his lips. But for some reason, the orcs didn't seem to want him dead yet. Though Faramir was killing all that met his blade, the orcs, were uncharacteristically gentle with him. It occurred to him that they seemed only to be trying to wear him down as they battered at him with the flats of their blades. Before he could consider all of the possible outcomes of this treatment, though, one of the filthy monsters succeeded in a direct hit upon his broken ankle, and when the rest of the orcs saw how much pain this brought to the Man, they all followed suit.

Faramir refused to cry out in pain even as he was pulled to the ground, orcs swarming over his protesting body as he realized that there was no hope for him now.


	2. Fear

A/N: Muahahahahahaha! Erm . . . sorry this is so short.  
  
Chapter 2  
  
Pain. It started as a niggling ache in his back, shoulders and wrists, uncomfortable enough to bring him toward wakefulness, but not irritating enough to bring him yet to full alertness. Absently, he attempted to stretch and turn onto his side, but found that he could not. The annoyance was enough to rouse him further, which rendered the pain in his arms nearly unbearable. With a gasp, Faramir opened his eyes and saw . . . nothing. It was black as pitch, and no matter how many times he blinked his eyes, he still could not see. But he did not need to see to know that he was not lying upon his back. Instead he was suspended by his wrists, with what he knew must be blood trickling down his bare arms, chest and back, soaking into the top of his breeches. He struggled to place his bare feet upon the ground but discovered he was hanging too far above it to give his arms any relief. His heart thumped heavily within his chest as he began to fully realize his predicament.  
  
_Valar! Where am I?  
_  
There was very little sound, though a soft breeze blew over his bare skin, chilling him to the bone, shudders wracking his battered form. But when the wind stirred the trees, and he heard a soft rustle of leaves, he fully remembered with a sinking heart what had happened to him. He grimaced at his own inadequacy, disbelieving how easily he had been captured. The orcs had closed in around him, and though he had managed to kill some of them and injure a few others, there had been too many of the filthy beasts to overcome, and though he had resisted them for as long as he was able, he had been quickly overrun by them. He struggled as they beat him to the ground, dread settling in his gut as filthy hands held him fast while others bound his hands together in front of him, and then, laughing at his distress, they had taken turns beating him without mercy, sparing no part of his body from their pounding fists and kicking feet. He had withstood much before he had finally blacked out.  
  
It was of no comfort whatever to Faramir that the rain had at last stopped. Now that the forest was dark and so very silent, he was finding it difficult to keep himself from panicking. His shoulders felt as if they were being wrenched from their sockets as he struggled within his bonds, but for all of his trouble, the ropes refused to loosen at all. Eventually, his hands and arms started to numb. He was certain it was not a wholly good thing, and the absence of that pain afforded him very little relief anyway. Why was there no sound of orcs? He could smell them nearby, even over the scent of his own blood. Hanging alone in the darkness, his mind raced as he involuntarily awaited an unknown end, one that he knew would be probably be most unpleasant.  
  
And it did not help to ease his mind that he would miss his appointed meeting time with the Steward of Gondor, though that seemed petty when compared with what he was facing now. Faramir knew that Denethor would be furious with him yet again. By the time Faramir did manage to reach the White City, he would probably be facing charges for being absent without leave. And, of course, Boromir would be worried about him. If Father would allow it, his brother might even come looking for him, if Boromir grew anxious enough. He prayed that this time Denethor would be more forgiving of his youngest son than he had been in the past, though he thought it very unlikely.  
  
And high above him, a being watched and waited, curious about this Man's fate. 


	3. Pain

Chapter 3  
  
Faramir had dangled by his wrists throughout the long night until the dawn finally came. He had been unable even to doze as his muscles shook with the strain of being trapped in such an unnatural position for so long. To help him pass the night a little easier, he had haltingly sung to himself, recalling in bits and pieces songs that he had known in his childhood, attempting unsuccessfully to soothe his own fears. When he wasn't singing, he prayed softly to Eru, making peace with his creator, expecting that he would be traveling to the Halls of Mandos soon, joining his long line of forefathers. For now, though, he had never felt more alone.  
  
_ Ah, Boromir, forgive me my carelessness! If only I had not been in such a hurry to see you, all of this trouble probably could have been avoided._ He prayed that his brother might find him before it was too late, though he didn't hold much hope for it now.  
  
When the faint light of dawn finally arrived, he could just barely discern that he was in a very deep part of the forest, for the sun afforded very little light to this area. Though he was relieved to find that he was not blind after all, he was quite unhappy when a small group of dark figures at last returned for him despite the fact that it was now daytime. The ranger found, though, that he was now more angry than frightened by his predicament. In fact, he couldn't remember ever being more angry as these orcs, only six in all, stopped in front of him, sniffing hungrily at his bloodied body, as they spoke amongst themselves and laughed.  
  
Faramir silently awaited his fate, straining to remain impassive. In the dim light, he looked up at his benumbed hands and saw that his bloodied wrists were captured within tight loops of rough, hempen rope that had been drawn over a sturdy branch. Then, glancing down, he saw in the dimness that his bare toes were hanging inches from the leaf litter upon the forest floor. Eventually his indignant gaze came to rest upon the orcs before him, and he listened to their harsh language for a moment, as they spoke amongst themselves, before he finally grew angry enough to interrupt their meeting. With his good foot he malevolently kicked the nearest one in the face, knocking it upon its backside.  
  
"What do you filthy beasts want with me?" he angrily demanded, in a surprisingly strong and even voice, though he knew that he would dislike the answer when he heard it.  
  
The orcs snickered and snorted at their unfortunate comrade, who was only now dazedly climbing up from the ground, but none replied to Faramir's question, though they briefly paused in their amusement as he spoke, glowering up at him as if they had only just noticed him, before they all began to laugh demoniacally, pointing toward him as if his situation was some very entertaining jape. As the orc that Faramir had kicked moved behind the Man, unfastening a whip from its belt, the ranger's blood ran cold. Faramir realized what was about to take place, but he refused to show any weakness before this pack of monsters. The laughter continued for some moments before the whip cracked, and Faramir's breath whistled through his teeth as the sharp edge of the leather made contact with the skin of his bare back. The lashing continued for many minutes as Faramir gritted his teeth and endeavored not to cry out, even as his body flinched with each blow as he twisted defenselessly within his bonds.  
  
Blackness was closing in at the edges of his vision when the whipping finally stopped with the same suddenness with which it had begun. Faramir panted in the cool air, attempting to stave off unconsciousness, steam rising from his tortured skin. His arms and back felt as if they had broken from the strain placed upon them. The only sound in the still forest now was his labored breathing, as his blood and sweat mingled, dripping upon the leaf litter from the tips of his toes, soaking into the ground in the dim morning light.  
  
"What do you want?" the ranger hissed from between his clenched teeth.

The orcs no longer laughed as his torment resumed. It seemed to him that the flogging would never cease, and indeed it might not have. Faramir didn't know either way as his vision fled first, his hearing failed second, and with it the crack of the whip. Finally the pain departed as well, leaving him alone within the dark safety of merciful oblivion.

* * *

"Father! Please, hear me out! I know that if Faramir remains yet unharmed, then he would have been here yesterday!" Boromir paced before the Steward of Gondor's personal dining table, trying to explain to Denethor why he thought that Faramir had not arrived in a timely manner, but his father was having none of it.  
  
"Do sit, Boromir! You make me nervous when you pace like that. It is enough to give a person a severe case of heartburn as he tries to eat his lunch."  
  
Boromir stopped pacing, tightly gripping the back of the chair across from his father's. "Your son is missing, and all you can worry about is your digestion?" Only this morning a riderless horse had arrived at the Great Gate bearing Faramir's belongings, but Denethor would not listen. Boromir ran his hands through his black hair. "Please, Father, let me go!"  
  
The Steward of Gondor was eating a piece of rare venison, the blood running down his chin, dripping down the front of his dark robe. Boromir was nearly sick between his worry for Faramir and having to watch his father's poor table manners, when Denethor finally took a moment between bites to eye his oldest son coldly and say, "Ever have you two been close, but you must realize, Boromir, that your brother is an adult now, four and twenty, and a lieutenant in the Rangers of Ithilien. No longer will I allow you to chase after him upon a whim. Were he unrelated to you, he would be considered derelict in his duty and punished severely. I think it is past time that he grew up and accepted the consequences of his poor decisions."  
  
Boromir sighed in exasperation, turned and began to pace once more.  
  
"Boromir, sit. Now. Your steward commands it." The son scowled at the father but said nothing as he dropped down into the chair across from the steward's, crossing his arms across his chest, as he leaned against the back of it uncomfortably. Denethor poured himself some wine and then poured a cupful for his son that Boromir drained in one gulp. "That wine is for sipping!" his father scolded. "Your grandfather acquired this particular wine when he was but a newly-made steward! If you feel the need to gulp your drink, Boromir, perhaps you should send one of the servants for some ale."  
  
Boromir tried to keep his tone quiet, hoping that if he took a different tack, he might be more successful in persuading his father that Faramir indeed required help. "Father, do you care so little for him that you do not worry though his horse has returned to the city with no one on its back? Would you be able to forgive yourself should Faramir be found dead along the road?" It pained him just saying the words, but he knew of no other way to get through to his father when he was in this mood.  
  
"I would, Son, for if your brother were to be found dead along the road, it would only be because he had died in defense of Gondor." He took another bite of venison. "Unless it was due to another of those headaches that the little weakling suffers, that is." His brow creased in annoyance. "I had hoped that he might outgrow those." He waved his hand as if dismissing that thought. "Most likely he was thrown from the beast's back. He has never been the best of horsemen. Regardless of his current plight, it is not your job to search the roads of Ithilien for lieutenants. You hold the second highest rank in the Gondorian army, Boromir."

"Yes, Father, I know," sighed Boromir.  
  
Meeting his son's gaze again, the steward said, "I forbid you to leave this city and my side, for we see far too little of one another as it is, my son. You cannot be spared to search for your errant brother." Denethor took another sip of his wine.  
  
It was difficult not to shout. "If, as you say, I cannot be spared, though I do naught here in the city but keep you company while I am on leave, might I at least be permitted to send someone else in my stead?"  
  
Denethor considered this as he bit into a juicy pear. "My, these pears are wonderful! You should try one, Son."  
  
"I am not hungry, Father!" Gritting his teeth, he clenched his fists for a moment, almost slamming them down upon the tabletop before he mastered his anger. "Will you not answer my question?"  
  
Denethor sighed and flung his half-eaten pear down upon his plate. "If I allow you to send another in your place, will you not speak of this to me anymore? I hate to see you so overwrought."  
  
Boromir nearly choked when he heard those words, but he nodded his assent. Denethor smiled. "Then I shall permit it, but only as a favor to you, my son."  
  
Trembling now with a mixture of rage at his father's aggravating indifference and fear for his missing brother, Boromir excused himself from the table and hurried from the room without a backward glance at the steward.  
  
Denethor sat silently for some minutes wondering what sort of mischief his youngest had gotten himself into. With the arrival of the riderless horse in the city, he knew that he should feel some worry for Faramir. It was unnatural not to care about your own child after all. But while Boromir spoke of his younger brother with great emotion, Denethor felt nothing but annoyance that Faramir had once again been careless and was causing Boromir so much worry.  
  
"Foolish boy!" he hissed in the empty room, shoving his unfinished dinner away from himself. How dare the little whelp do that to his Boromir? If Faramir was not already dead, then when he finally arrived in Minas Tirith, Denethor would make him wish for death.


	4. Torment

A/N: This is what happens when you spend an entire weekend listening to Nine Inch Nails CD's. Just a heads up for anyone else that wants to give that a shot.

* * *

Chapter 4  
  
Faramir was suddenly awakened when his inert body was doused with a quantity of cold water. He was instantly aware that he was lying on his side upon the sodden ground, his wrists bound together behind him. He was yet surrounded by the orcs, but a new figure had also arrived, an uruk-hai that stood upright on two legs and carried a great, hooked sword in its massive grip. As it viciously kicked Faramir in the side, it spoke in Westron, in a cold, grating voice, "Get up, ranger."  
  
The Man sighed, uncertain if he would be able to rise, but unwilling to betray his weakness to this foul creature, he struggled his way to his feet, ignoring the pain pulsing through his body, most especially his broken ankle.  
  
"You are going to die, do you know that?" the uruk laughed mirthlessly, and Faramir shuddered inwardly at its cold tone, even as he dared to glare into its unnatural eyes. "But first you shall tell me all that you know about where the rest of your company of rangers is hiding."  
  
"I will not."  
  
"You are in no position to refuse, ranger."  
  
"If I am to die anyway, then you should just kill me now, for I will not tell you anything, you foul, evil piece of filth!" Faramir spat just before the uruk hauled him off of his feet, slamming his bloodied back against a nearby tree trunk, the excruciating pain stealing the breath from his lungs. Tears welled in the ranger's eyes as the uruk ground the welts upon his back against the rough bark and held the edge of its sword to his throat.  
  
"Answer me, and I shall kill you quickly, or defy me so that I can make your pain last for days. I would prefer to torture you, but the choice is yours."  
  
"I shall tell you nothing," Faramir mumbled with courage that he did not wholly feel. The uruk chuckled in delight when it smelled the Man's fear. Tossing its sword aside, it ever so slowly wrapped its rough fingers about the ranger's throat and squeezed, the force of its hand growing stronger with each passing second. Faramir closed his eyes and let the agonizing feeling of the rough tree bark against the open wounds of his back wash over him, using the pain as an anchor to keep himself calm, but when he could no longer breathe, he felt nothing but terror within him.  
  
He dropped to the ground as the uruk-hai suddenly released him. Gasping greedily for air even as he was being kicked without mercy in his already injured ribs, Faramir felt them slowly giving way. Then, lightning fast, the uruk jerked him upright with a tight grip around his throat that threatened to rob him of his consciousness. He could not stop himself finally from whimpering in fear when the uruk securely wrapped a length of rough rope about Faramir's already abused throat, and with a hideous chuckle, it threw the other end over a branch, yanking the ranger up into the tree.  
  
There was nothing Faramir could do. He was utterly helpless in this creature's grasp, he knew, as his oxygen-starved body protested against this rough treatment by bucking uncontrollably. After what seemed like forever to the injured Man, the uruk released the rope, and Faramir landed upon the hard ground with a thud. The creature pulled him to him feet, loosening the rope about his throat, allowing him the luxury of breathing for a moment before it again asked him about his fellow rangers.  
  
Still he refused to speak, hoping to anger the monster into killing him outright, but this uruk-hai showed extraordinary patience, and Faramir was pulled back into the tree, again and again, until he was nearly insensible, his consciousness caught somewhere between pain and numbness.

* * *

Boromir did the only thing that he knew to do. He sent forth a small company of rangers, who were on leave for a few days, who had been temporarily garrisoned at Minas Tirith while they waited replacements for their wounded and dead after a particularly brutal battle near Cair Andros. The company had not been overly-enthused by the prospect of combing Ithilien for a single ranger, but when Boromir explained whom the ranger was, they wholeheartedly agreed to help, wanting to aid their steward and his sons in any way possible.  
  
It was with a heavy and anxious heart that Boromir saw them off at the Great Gate, forbidden to accompany them any further. He had given them explicit instructions to keep him well informed throughout their search and to search the forest thoroughly. No rest would come to him until he knew for certain of his little brother's fate. The commander of this company of rangers was called Captain Meneldil, and Boromir thought that he had seemed a very capable leader. The captain had bowed low before the steward's son and promised that he would do all within his power to see Faramir home safely.  
  
As there were only twenty-three men now in his company, Captain Meneldil kept them all in a tight group after they passed through Osgiliath and crossed the River Anduin, and they watched the road carefully, hoping at least to catch sight of where Lieutenant Faramir might have lost his mount. Unfortunately, it had recently rained, and it appeared that many riders had passed upon the road since he had disappeared, and there was no sign of him. On a whim, the captain sent three of his men on to Henneth Annûn in hopes that Faramir might have returned there, and all of this trouble was just due to a misunderstanding. As for the rest of his men, he split them into two equal groups, one for each side of the road, and they began to spread out and search more thoroughly, keeping close enough that they could easily signal one another in case they encountered any trouble.  
  
When it grew too dark to search, they camped upon the road itself, and the rangers stopped every traveler that came by, questioning them about a young lieutenant who had been riding a roan courier horse headed toward the White City. By morning, several people had gone by, but none had seen Faramir, though a few of them had reported seeing orcs to the north of the road.  
  
Captain Meneldil rethought his original plan, and instead of searching both sides of the road, he decided that they would simply spread out and head in a northerly direction, grimly thinking that if the orcs had captured the steward's youngest son, he was likely dead by now.


	5. Death

Chapter 5  
  
Denethor knew what was keeping Boromir from the dining table this morning, though he didn't wish to dwell upon it. Surely Faramir had been found by now. The Steward of Gondor sighed ruefully at his own attitude at dinner the night before. He was uncertain how he had allowed that horrible sort of mood to overtake him, and he wondered now if he would ever be able to make it up to Boromir or Faramir.  
  
On a whim, he sent the servant who was standing nearby waiting to clear the dishes to find and bring his oldest son to him, demanding haste from the man. Only a few minutes later, which seemed like an agonizingly long time to Denethor, Boromir entered the dining hall, looking very tired and disheveled, wearing the same tunic and leggings that he had on last night.  
  
After bowing before the steward and kissing his ring, the warrior stood expectantly, looking warier than his father could ever remember seeing him. Denethor, sensing he might have trouble with his son, broke the silence.  
  
"Good morning, Boromir." Denethor smiled slightly, trying to be pleasant.  
  
Boromir coldly inclined his head in acknowledgment. "Father."  
  
"I am surprised to see that you yet remain in the city. I thought you might disobey me." Denethor cleared his throat as Boromir remained silent. The steward rose from his seat at the table, moving closer to the windows, away from the accusatory glare of his oldest. "I have done some thinking during the night, my son." His words faltered as he looked out over the Pelennor, as he thought of his callousness toward his youngest. What a fool he had been! Faramir, the one who reminded him so much of his beloved Finduilas, so much that often he could not bear to look upon his son's face, was missing, his riderless horse arriving at the gate. And Denethor had been too stubborn and stupid to have a care for him. He needed to amend his mistake quickly.  
  
"Yes, Father?" Boromir finally prompted impatiently.  
  
Without looking away from the fields below, the steward said, "Your brother is in need of you. Go to him."  
  
The very atmosphere in the room changed as Boromir's immediate frustration disappeared. Breathlessly, he thanked his father and ran from the hall twice as fast as he had the evening before. There was nothing else in his mind but getting properly armed and dressed and taking the fastest horse that he could find to Ithilien.  
  
_Hold on, Fara! I am coming!_  
  
Within minutes Boromir was dressed and racing on horseback across the Pelennor, praying that Faramir had already been found. It was nearly an hour before he met the captain of the rangers upon the road, who seemed surprised to see the oldest son of the steward, but efficiently gave him a thorough report of all that had been learned about the missing younger son, which in the end amounted to nothing.  
  
Boromir contemplated the captain's words, how his company was searching north of the road, and he decided that he would search south of the road, just in case something had been overlooked by mistake. Meneldil agreed with the soldier, and they parted ways, the captain with pessimism in his heart, and Boromir with hope in his own.

Noticing that his mount seemed quite jumpy, Boromir eased the stallion from the road and into the underbrush, whispering soft words of encouragement into his horse's ear as he kept all of his own senses alert in the darkness of the forest. Though it was now midmorning, very little light penetrated the dense growth of the woods here, and he grew more nervous the deeper he went in.  
  
Without warning, Boromir was knocked from his saddle by a strong blow that fell upon the metal plate armor hidden beneath his cloak, landing him upon his front in the leaf litter, as his horse bolted. Somewhat stunned, he still drew his sword and turned in time to parry a blow that would have killed him, the hideous face of the uruk above him, sending a chill through him. He rolled away and gained his feet almost effortlessly, keeping his blade before him as the creature attacked again. Though the uruk-hai was strong and had the element of surprise on its side, Boromir quickly dispatched it. He thought it odd that there was only one of the beasts that had attacked him, but though he was now ready in case any others decided to assail him, he met no others.  
  
It was nearly frightening how quiet the forest had become, and Boromir quickly moved in the direction from which the uruk-hai had come, both hoping and dreading that it might be the direction where he would find Faramir.

* * *

Faramir knew that his death would probably come soon now. Ever since the uruk had discarded him, deciding that it would receive no information from this Man, the other orcs had not ceased their torturing of him for even a moment, erroneously thinking that they might gain some bit of knowledge from him that might raise their status in the eyes of their betters. Faramir's health had become very fragile indeed. He could barely see with his stormy-grey eyes nearly swollen shut from the repeated beatings that he had sustained. His ears were ringing from his being hit in the head so many times. The worst of it was the difficulty that he was having while trying to breathe now. Between his mass of bruised and broken ribs and the blood that still dripped from his broken nose, he was choking upon his own blood. Trying to remain face down had become his focus, since every time he was tossed onto his back, he thought that he might drown. And as if this was all not enough, one of the vile monsters had recently crushed his left hand with a mace, and Faramir cradled his wounded appendage close to his body now, hoping in vain that the orcs might stop concentrating their efforts upon his greatest current source of agony.  
  
His body shuddering with the effort, Faramir painfully tried to drag himself through the dead leaves of the forest floor, ignoring the nearly paralyzing pain in his arms, praying that he might be able to escape into some underbrush and avoid some of the blows that were raining down upon him. But it was no use. His weak movements only seemed to excite the orcs further, and one of them began to kick him in his broken ribs again. It was more than Faramir would accept, and he grasped the orc's foot with his good hand, his anger giving him the strength to hold on despite the pain, causing the creature to fall down into the leaves beside him. As it squealed in protest, one of its fellows quickly avenged it.  
  
Faramir heard the sword as it was drawn from its sheath, he felt the cold, sharp metal drive down into his back, through his body, and into the muddy ground beneath him. The pain was blinding, but there was little more that he could do than sigh softly in relief, whisper his brother's name one last time and then die. 


	6. Surprise

A/N: Your patience has been admirable.

* * *

Chapter 6  
  
The Elf, for after everything she had endured, she still had to remind herself often that she remained Elven, had been observing this horrible display from the safety and comfort of the trees above and had watched in fascination as this Man had been waylaid beneath her high perch, tied up and left alone. She had become intrigued by him as he had quietly sung through the night in his pain-roughened voice even as she had sensed the waves of fear emanating from his being. It was not long before six of the smaller black creatures had returned to him, showing by their actions that they clearly held very little regard for his well-being. Knowing from experience that the black ones held nothing but evil inside of them, she had continued to observe as an even larger one had arrived, obviously demanding something from the Man that the smaller ones had captured and beaten. She had sensed the Man's heartbeat as the uruk had interrogated him, a frantic pounding within his chest that increased both in speed and volume as he was dangled from a tree branch like some macabre decoration from a midwinter celebration.  
  
Years ago she would have immediately interrupted this abuse, but it had been so long since she had encountered anyone who had meant her anything besides ill, she found that she had no will to interfere with the natural order of things in this matter. It was none of her concern anyway. But she was displeased that the black ones were killing the other one slowly by inches. Having endured her own ordeal, she believed that death should be dealt swiftly and with purpose, not doled out one small morsel at a time. Death should be dealt without pleasure as well, and these creatures were obviously enjoying themselves. Unable to help herself, she dropped silently to a lower branch for a better look. She admired the Man's strength, surprised that he yet had some fight left within him as she saw one of the black ones fall over and squeak in discomfort. Without warning, one of the Man's evil little captors ran him through with its sword, silencing his heart for good.  
  
The Elf tilted her head to the side a bit in surprise and confusion at her own reaction as the Man's lifeblood slowly seeped into the ground, for the evil ones had seemed content merely to play with their prey like a group of cats with a large rat, but now they had killed him, and despite the fact that his death had been merciful after all he had been forced to endure, she realized that she was angered by his end. Silently drawing her black knives with gloved hands, she dropped to the ground stealthily, and before any of the orcs had a chance to react, she had slit all of their throats, taking no satisfaction in their deaths, only doing what she felt was right, as she wiped their black blood upon the dead leaves at her feet.  
  
Glancing around her, she resheathed her blades, stepping over the corpses, making certain that all were dead. She felt a flicker of regret that the Man had died as well, since there had been some good in him that had made itself known to her as she had seen the torment that he had been forced to endure. Kneeling next to him, she pulled the clumsy orcish blade from his body, tossing it aside. Without knowing why, she gently turned him over and examined his lifeless features, his battered face now slack beneath shoulder-length black hair. She felt an emptiness inside herself since his spirit had been so brutally subdued. With a soft curse upon her lips, she drew off her gloves, took a deep, steadying breath, and laid her bare hands upon his sallow skin, closing her eyes to better concentrate, waiting for it.  
  
She hadn't done this in so long that she was unsure that it would still work, but she waited, unmoving, for a few minutes, before at last the familiar feeling welled up within her, the faint amber-colored light enveloping both of her hands and her charge's body. It was some minutes after that before he finally took a sudden, deep, shuddering breath, and then he was coughing weakly, his lungs drawing breath and his heart beating once again as the sword wound slowly vanished from his flesh, leaving only a faint scar of the exit wound upon the flesh of his chest.  
  
The Elf, shivering with effort, opened her eyes and carefully removed her hands as the spark of his life returned to him, and then, hunching over him protectively, she waited for the pain to fade from her own body. As much as the healing of the sword wound had anguished her, she could only imagine how badly that it must have hurt him when it had been inflicted. Again, she marveled at his strength as it was not long before he managed to open his pain-filled silver-grey eyes, glancing hazily up at her, his lips moving as if he were trying to speak. She leaned even closer to him, trying to catch his words, and before she realized what he was doing, he had firmly clutched her bare hand within his own. Instantly her pain grew exponentially as his decreased, the healing light stealing her strength and giving it to him. For a split second their minds were as one, each seeing the other's thoughts with startling clarity.  
  
Without considering the consequences of her actions, the Elf jerked her hand out of his grasp, and at the instantly broken contact, his pain recoiled within him. He cried out wordlessly, lost in agony, clutching weakly, blindly at the empty air around himself. The Elf cried silent tears of pain as well, her strength nearly spent by this mistake. As quickly as she could, she pulled her black leather gloves back on, and then tried to soothe him through her own haze of agony. He quieted quickly, somehow knowing that silence was best, though he didn't open his eyes again. She could sense fear in him now, and she did what she could to ease his heart, whispering softly to him in Sindarin, bidding him to be patient, for she could, and indeed, she intended to take all of his pain from him, but not all at once. He seemed to understand her words as he nodded slightly before falling into a faint.  
  
He didn't know how lucky he was that she hadn't killed him again by pulling away from him like that. She had miscalculated his reaction, little realizing how desperate he would be for a friendly and soothing touch upon his skin. She gently stroked his face with her gloved hand and curled up close to him, sharing her body heat with him as they both slowly recovered. Soon, however, she heard approaching footfalls through the underbrush. Torn between hiding herself and protecting the ranger, she reluctantly retreated to the trees, knowing that despite her current weakness, she still should be able to protect him well enough if the noise was caused by an enemy.  
  
A few minutes later, another Man entered her field of vision, and she was quite certain that he had been sent to look for the one that she had just aided. She waited to see if her charge would be found, and indeed, this newly-arrived Man found him quickly, his concern very apparent from the speed with which he moved.


	7. Faith

Chapter 7  
  
Boromir just barely kept himself from roaring in despair when he spied his younger brother's body lying discarded in the leaf litter, no part of him unbloodied. Rushing to his side, the warrior forced himself to check Faramir's neck for a pulse. Relieved when he at last could feel it weakly beating beneath his fingertips, the warrior spoke softly to his little brother, sweeping a gentle hand across Faramir's pale, sweaty brow. He was unsuccessful in keeping his voice steady as he quickly took inventory of the ranger's countless injuries. "Eru's tears!" he gasped in horror when he discovered the mass of bloody welts upon his brother's bare back. "Oh, Fara, what has happened to you?" With tender care, Boromir removed his heavy, sable cloak and wrapped Faramir's still form within its warmth, leaving the ranger lying upon his right side.  
  
Glancing around to ensure himself that they yet remained alone, Boromir scanned his surroundings, noting that there were six dead orcs lying here, but the only weapon that was near Faramir was an orc blade coated in red blood instead of the black blood of orcs. Boromir seriously doubted that the ranger would have had the strength to wield this heavy blade as badly injured as he was, and these kills were fresh. Something did not seem right here.  
  
Boromir stood up, ready for trouble, some sixth sense alerting him that he and his brother were not alone.  
  
"Come out," he hissed, holding his sword at the ready as his eyes scanned the area. He was unwilling to raise his voice, uncertain of how many enemies that might bring down upon Faramir and himself. "I know you are nearby. Show yourself!"  
  
From the underbrush came a rustling noise, faint at first but growing in intensity, and Boromir whirled to face it, placing himself between the sound and his injured brother. Orcs began to pour forth from the forest, and the warrior raised the Horn of Gondor to his lips and blew it with all of his breath, summoning all within its call to their aid. Knowing that there was no reason to keep quiet any longer, Boromir shouted in rage, slipping easily into killing mode, trotting forward to meet his enemy, wanting to keep space between them and Faramir.  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, the warrior glimpsed a sudden movement, as seemingly from nowhere appeared a hooded figure, clad all in black, who fought beside him. Boromir could not spare any time to wonder at this new arrival, and since the figure seemed to be on his side, he fought all the harder against the orcish onslaught, knowing that he now had a chance of victory. He did note that the lithe figure fought gracefully with two knives in a style unfamiliar to him and did so very effectively. Battling together without words, they pulled back until they were nearly standing atop Faramir, and then they fought back-to-back, slaying any of the creatures that were brave or stupid enough to approach their position.  
  
It was not long at all before the rangers quietly arrived, and Boromir breathed a sigh of relief as the remaining orcs were driven back, and felled by arrows as they fled. The warrior turned to thank his unexpected helper, but found no one standing at his back. He looked around in confusion only a moment more before kneeling again next to his badly injured brother.  
  
Shouting orders to the men around him, he demanded things to be brought that would be needed to make Faramir more comfortable and stable enough to be transported to the White City. He was very worried about all of the blood that covered his brother's body, most especially that which was leaking from his nose and mouth. Faramir had at last been found, and Boromir was beside himself with worry, afraid that help had arrived too late to save his little brother. So it was shocking when Faramir opened his eyes a little, taking a very ragged breath while his uninjured hand sought his brother's, before he spoke.

"Bo? Is it . . . truly you?" In his weakness, Faramir's voice, though thick with blood and pain, sounded years younger to Boromir, and the warrior had great difficulty hiding his tear-filled eyes from him, not wanting to alert Faramir to the danger that he was in, as Boromir assured his brother that he had been found. "Where . . . ?" the ranger started to ask, but he had to pause to take another painful breath.  
  
Boromir tried to smile. "Peace, Fara. Rest now. You are in good hands, for some of your rangers have come to your aid, little brother."  
  
"I rest in . . . good hands . . . as long as . . . I am . . . with you."  
  
Boromir tried to shush Faramir as more cloaks were offered for the young lieutenant's comfort, and then a waterskin was brought to the warrior, and he gave his brother a few small sips to drink. Faramir coughed weakly before again he spoke. "Where . . . is she?"  
  
"Who, Fara?" asked Boromir, before realizing that Faramir must be speaking of the hooded figure who had appeared and then disappeared in the span of a few short minutes. He silenced his brother with the light touch of a finger upon his bloodied lips. "I saw her but do not know where she has hidden herself for the nonce. Now, be silent, I beg you, Fara. Keep still until we can find a way to fetch you home safely."  
  
"But I . . . need her," the youngest breathed.  
  
Boromir was having trouble holding his voice steady before these other men. He shouted more orders to mask it, knowing that a wain couldn't be fetched any more quickly no matter how loudly he spoke. Turning his attention back to Faramir, he gently stroked the ranger's cheek. "She is no longer here, dear brother."  
  
"I . . . need her, for . . . she holds. . . ."  
  
"Did she take something from you, little one? Did she hurt you?" Boromir asked in consternation, using the nickname he had called Faramir when they were just young boys. The warrior was becoming more concerned as Faramir seemed to grow more frantic.  
  
"Oh, Bo," sobbed the ranger hoarsely. "She has . . . taken my . . . soul!"  
  
The warrior would have laughed if the situation had not been so grim. "Fara, whatever do you mean?" Boromir meant the words to be soothing. "No one can hold that power over you, brother."  
  
"But . . . she does. . . . Bo, please . . . find her." His little brother's grey eyes were dull with pain, but Boromir thought that Faramir seemed lucid enough, though it appeared that the struggle to draw enough air into his lungs to keep himself conscious and speaking was quickly becoming too difficult to achieve. "She fears . . . only . . . the loss . . . of her . . . freedom. . . ."  
  
"Please, Fara," Boromir nearly sobbed as he begged his brother to quiet himself. "I cannot stand to see you suffer thusly." He stroked the ranger's cheek. "Close your eyes now and rest. I promise that I shall see to your friend."  
  
Faramir nodded and faded back into unconsciousness, and Boromir patted his brother's now limp hand once before he stood, turning in a circle, hoping to catch sight of the female in black that his brother seemed to think so important. He had not yet spied her when a litter arrived, and the warrior was obliged to aid them as ever so gently, the Men transferred Faramir onto it.

Though he had promised to find the woman, Boromir would not leave Faramir's side. Taking a corner of the litter, he helped the rangers lift their precious cargo and tote him to the road through the dense growth of the forest.


	8. Mistrust

A/N: Please, please, please, forgive me for not thanking you all sooner for your encouraging reviews! I have been having a few problems with the new editor, and so, by the time I save the darn thing properly, I find that I've forgotten to add an author's note. Silly me!  
  
While I love all reviews, I would really appreciate some reviews specific to my characterization of Boromir. This story is the first I've written with him in it, and while Faramir can talk to me for hours and hours about his life, Boromir has shown himself to be a rather tight-lipped fellow. I would appreciate any insight into him that anyone wishes to offer!  
  
Thanks!!!!

* * *

Chapter 8  
  
Keeping to the trees, the Elf followed Faramir as he was finally carried from this grim place. She reached her consciousness out to him, but found his thoughts disjointed and hazy, though most of them were of her. She wondered how Faramir's brother would react when he found that the ranger was not far wrong when he had said that she had taken his soul. However, though he did not know it yet, Faramir had taken hers as well.  
  
If only she had not allowed him touch her, she could have healed him and been on her way. She silently cursed her own carelessness. Because of that one mistake, she would have to rest awhile before she could heal him, and far beyond that problem, she and this intriguing young Man had been accidentally tied together by her magic, and she knew that this situation now could not be undone until one of them was dead. As she was one of Elvenkind, it would most likely be his death that would free them from this connection, and though the joining was not to her liking, she did not wish him dead again anytime soon.  
  
And so it disturbed her how badly wounded he yet remained, as she had not the strength to heal him now, and she would be unable to do so anyway while he remained in the keeping of these Men. She wished that she could have healed his damaged ribs, as she knew that their jagged, broken edges were biting into the delicate tissue of his lungs with every breath he drew, the blood slowly pooling within them. Soon he would be unable to breathe at all. This was something that no mere Man had the power to alleviate, and if she did not follow him and heal him later, he would surely die.  
  
She was uncertain how she would proceed, though, once he was removed from the forest. Since she had escaped from Mordor, she had not departed from the safety of the trees, and, until now, she had never felt any need to. With a weary sigh, she dropped from her hiding place and followed the Men, hoping that she would not be accidentally shot as an orc before she could decide upon the best way to approach them. Luckily for her, the bearers of the litter had their attention firmly upon Faramir, and though the remainder of the Men kept their attention on the wood around them, she only had to stay within the edge of the forest to keep hidden from the ones who were bringing up the rear.  
  
"Why is there yet no wain for him?" she heard the warrior complain loudly, and she felt pity for him, for it was apparent that his brother meant everything to him, and that he was suffering almost as much as the other one was, though he wouldn't allow himself to break down before these Men. The Elf thought back upon the memories she had seen when she had briefly touched Faramir's mind. So, this was Boromir. This Man was also everything to Faramir: brother, parent, friend. He was the one that she would have to speak with if she wished to remain with Faramir, for she knew that without his permission, she would never gain the proximity that she would require to save the ranger's life. 

With her exceptional sense of hearing, she heard Faramir softly cry out, and Boromir immediately called for him to be lowered to the ground. He shouted angrily at the other men, demanding to know again when the wain would arrive, and all of them drew away from him except one, as he stood next to Faramir, running his hands through his hair as he struggled to maintain a calm facade.  
  
"Lord Boromir," said Captain Meneldil quietly as he drew close to the warrior, "I know you worry for your brother, but these Men have recently seen a horrific battle, and I would not have you shouting at them in your frustration. We do the best that we can, and I promise that we shall see the young lieutenant home to his father as soon as possible."  
  
"I fear that it shall be too late for his father to see him yet alive, Captain," Boromir whispered. Meneldil nodded but said nothing. Speaking normally now, the warrior added, "I shall not apologize for demanding the best care for my brother, though I do apologize for the tone." Again the captain nodded, and moved away from the brothers, before he caught hold of the arm of a passing lieutenant and whispered some brief words in his ear that did not interest the Elf.  
  
Instead, she listened to Boromir once again attempting in vain to comfort his younger brother, offering him more water, and she heard Faramir also attempting in vain to explain her to his elder brother. It was clear that this needed to cease immediately, for the lieutenant would require all of his strength now. Silently, she circled the position where the group of rangers stood waiting for their order to move on, and after taking a deep, steadying breath, she emerged from the forest, making her presence known by clearing her throat. Instantly there were at least ten arrows aimed at her heart, and she showed her hands to them, hoping that they would know that she meant them no trouble. "I am here to see Lord Faramir."  
  
As the rangers lowered their bows at the sound of the feminine voice, their captain took a step toward her, and said, "Lord Faramir is indisposed at the moment. Who might you be?" he asked, his suspicion plain upon his face. He was trying to see into the depths of the hood that hid her face, but was having no success.  
  
"What is it?" she heard then, and the elder brother made his way to the front of the group. When his eyes lighted on her, his expression became unreadable. "Who are you?" he asked warily.  
  
"I am a friend of your brother's. I must see him." She was close enough now to feel Faramir's fever, his injuries taking a dangerous toll on his body.  
  
Boromir raised an eyebrow, looking her up and down, as he rested his hand upon the pommel of his sword. "Must you? How do you know my brother?"  
  
"We became acquainted in the forest when he was attacked."  
  
"And you aided me as well," said Boromir. "I think it odd, though, that you disappeared before I could thank you."  
  
"Bo?" Faramir moaned from his position behind the Men, and the Elf winced at the jumble of painful emotions that crossed the warrior's face. He went back to Faramir's side, and the Elf was surprised when no one made any move to stop her as she followed him. She stood close by as Boromir knelt and took his brother's uninjured hand within his own again.  
  
"I am here, little brother, and your _friend_ is here as well." He spared a seething glance for the hooded Elf.  
  
Faramir sighed, and she could feel him relax. "Thank the . . . Valar," he managed to say.

Despite his reservations, Boromir knew that he shouldn't burden his brother with any of his concerns, but he couldn't help but ask, "Fara, who is this woman?"  
  
The ranger's grey eyes lit on her form. "She is . . . a good friend." He took a shuddering breath. "My lady," he finally whispered, using the Elf's own language very effectively. "Thank you."  
  
The Elf took a step closer and reached her mind out to the ranger. _Save your strength, young one. You need but to think it, and I shall comprehend your meaning.  
_  
He was startled by the unfamiliar contact, and closed his eyes again so that he could concentrate better. _My thanks again, my lady. . . . Lachdúliel? That is your name?_  
  
She nodded as she mentally affirmed his thoughts.  
  
_I am glad to formally make your acquaintance, Lady Lachdúliel. I am Lieutenant Faramir of Gondor._ He opened his eyes again, and she was startled by the intense awareness and intelligence that she spied within their depths. _What did you do to me when we touched? I see things in my mind, people, places that I do not recognize, but somehow they all seem familiar anyway. Am I dreaming?  
_  
_Sadly, no, young one, neither of us is. For now I shall say only that we are each burdened with the other's pain and save the full explanation for another time.  
_  
Boromir, unaware of the silent exchange, said, "Please, Fara, try to rest."  
  
_Faramir, please, obey your brother, for he is frightened and feels useless when he sees you suffering thusly. I promise that I shall explain all to you.  
_  
_Please, my lady, there is so much that I wish to know now. . . .  
_  
But she gently silenced his mind with a thought. As Faramir closed his eyes, she said to Boromir, "He shall sleep now and rest painlessly." There was a murmur of disbelief from the rangers, but no one said anything aloud. "If you would allow me. . . ." She took yet another step closer to the wounded Man, but Boromir stood quickly and blocked her access to his brother, his green eyes flashing in anger.  
  
"I would _not_ allow you, for I know naught of you, and you have not even seen fit to show me your face." He stood waiting.  
  
Finally, she spoke. "I would not reveal my identity here before these Men."  
  
"Why?" asked Boromir. "What have you to hide?"  
  
"My reasons for remaining hidden are my own, but I swear to you that I have not harmed your brother, nor would I. I seek only to aid him."  
  
The warrior stared at her mistrustfully, and she wondered briefly if, in the end, she would have to beg him to allow her to heal Faramir. "I do not trust you. However, my brother has no more time to dally. I would have you accompany me to Minas Tirith, since for some unfathomable reason, you seem to bring my brother such comfort. But you shall remain under guard for as long as you are in his company, and if you make any move toward him, ill or otherwise, I shall hew you down myself."  
  
His eyes were filled with emotion, and the Elf had no doubt that he would do as he said. She nodded her acquiescence and waited for Boromir and the other bearers of the litter to raise Faramir from the ground before she fell into step behind them and wondered what awaited her within the city of Men.


	9. Waiting

A/N: I hope that I haven't bored you all too much by dragging this out. I appreciate all of your reviews and kind words!  
  
Chapter 9  
  
There was a wain that had been half-emptied of its load of hay awaiting Faramir's arrival in Osgiliath, and Boromir directed the litter- bearers with an iron tone as they gently eased the wounded Man into the back of it before the warrior climbed in himself. He turned to offer the woman a hand, but she refused it and gracefully leapt unaided into the cart.  
  
"Sit," he commanded her unnecessarily, and she did, sinking into the hay in the farthest corner of the wain from the wounded Man. Boromir grunted his approval as he sat down next to his brother, softly stroking Faramir's face as one of the other rangers climbed in, took the reins, and began to drive the cart forward as slowly as he could, making an effort not to incur Boromir's wrath by jostling his brother too much as the entire group moved forward upon the road. They eventually passed through the gate of the Rammas Echor, and onto the Pelennor Fields.  
  
The going was agonizingly slow, and though his worry had not lessened, Boromir was curious enough about the black-clad figure here with him that he felt compelled to speak to her.  
  
"I see as I gaze upon my brother's face that, indeed, he feels little pain, for he seems so much more at rest now. How did you achieve this?"  
  
"It is something that I have always been able to do, but I know not how to explain it to you." There was an uncomfortable silence before she ventured a question of her own. "Where shall you take him when we arrive in the city?"  
  
He glared at her suspiciously before he shrugged and answered, "To the Houses of Healing, where he shall receive the finest care that can be procured within the White City."  
  
"Of that I have no doubt." She considered adding, "but he shall die anyway," but she decided against it, unwilling to upset the warrior more than he already obviously was. Instead, she sifted through the memories that she had received from Faramir, trying to use the knowledge to plan a course of action. She found that besides the brother, there was a father, and he would probably be a bigger impediment than even Boromir was.  
  
The relationship that Faramir had with his father was very complex, and judging by Faramir's memories, it seemed quite terrifying. Time and time again, the ranger had been the recipient of physical abuse and emotional neglect at the hands of this Man, and Faramir felt only anxiety and a wish for peace when in his father's presence. For some strange reason, the father only showed love and acceptance to the eldest, while the youngest had to satisfy himself with leftover crumbs.  
  
It was such a foreign notion to her, this way that the father treated his son, for her own father had been very loving to her, and she missed him terribly since he had been murdered in Mordor. She thanked the Valar daily that they had parted on good terms, never having wasted any time on ill will between themselves. She wondered how long it would be before Faramir would have to suffer at his father's hands again.  
  
With a heavy heart, she knew that if she was unable to help him soon, it was certain that he wouldn't.  
  
Denethor had done little but worry since Boromir had departed Minas Tirith. He had kept a close watch upon the Pelennor knowing that any group of soldiers approaching would be seen easily at a great distance from these high windows in the Citadel. But eventually his ministers had suggested that they should reconvene the council upon the morrow since the Steward of Gondor was obviously very preoccupied by the disappearance of his son, the Lord Faramir. Denethor had agreed halfheartedly at the time, but now he wished that he had made a better attempt to muddle through the council session, for now there was nothing to do but dwell upon his absent sons.  
  
Sighing heavily, he stepped out of his study in the steward's residence and stood uncertainly for a moment. "Denethor, you truly are a fool!" he scolded himself before he stepped aimlessly down the corridor, wandering really, eventually finding himself before Faramir's rooms. Never had he bothered to explore his youngest son's rooms before, though often he had wondered what he might find within them. After taking a lamp from the table in the corridor, he pushed open the door and went to the windows, pushing apart the heavy crimson drapes, allowing some daylight into his son's sitting room.  
  
Though his son had not stepped one foot within this room for at least six months, it was unmistakably remained Faramir's. The walls were covered in shelves that were loaded with books, tomes filled with the details of ancient battles and books about nearly every culture upon the world. _Whence did he acquire all of these books?_ Long ago, Denethor had forbidden Faramir to visit the library in the Citadel anymore, citing that the time wasted there could be better put to use in weapons practice. It seemed, however, that his son had more than made up for having his library privileges taken from him. Sitting upon a dusty red couch, Denethor picked up one of the books that had been left upon the low table before him, surprised to discover that the thin volume was a book filled with Sindarin love poetry. After flipping through the pages for a few moments, the steward opened the front cover and discovered from the inscription written there that this was a book that he had given to his beloved Finduilas before they had been married. _Why can I not remember this book? She must have gifted it to Faramir before she. . . .  
_  
No, he couldn't think of that now. Too much despair would send him back into the familiar rage that he felt whenever he thought too long upon the unfortunate portions of his life. No, he had reserved this time to dwell upon his youngest son. Setting the book aside, he rose, drawn to a framed sketch hanging upon the wall. The subject was Boromir, and when he saw the signature at the bottom, Denethor delighted to realize that Faramir himself had drawn it. It was a very good likeness of his eldest son standing beside his mount, both dressed in full battle armor. There were other sketches, their subjects varied, but the steward was drawn back to this picture. He had never known that Faramir was such a talented artist.  
  
In the corner of the room rested both a lute and a harp. Denethor had never heard his boy play either of these instruments and wondered briefly if he was as talented with them as he was with parchment and charcoal. He felt a certain sadness then that Faramir had been forced to leave so much of what he loved behind to become a ranger, but it was a necessity in these times. Faramir had been skilled enough with a sword to fight in the regular army like Boromir, but he was also very talented with a bow, so he was sent to the rangers, where both silence and stealth equaled survival.  
  
Before he could further explore Faramir's rooms he glanced out of the window and noticed a small group of what appeared to be rangers slowly approaching the city upon the road from Osgiliath. Motionlessly, he watched for a long time as they crept ever nearer, realizing that the reason for their slow progress was that the mounted rangers were escorting a cart. Grief twisted his heart as he slowly realized that it might now be too late to make peace with his youngest son.  
  
_Faramir, my son!_ Denethor knew that his boy's condition must be bad if they were escorting him home thusly, and he prayed to the Valar that Faramir yet lived as he departed his son's rooms and hurried to the throne room in the Citadel, so that no one would have to search for him throughout the city to bring him whatever news awaited him. 


	10. Confusion

A/N: I changed three words in the last chapter, and now Faramir is an elite ranger! :) I hope you all like this chapter; I don't particularly. Don't forget that I love your reviews! (shameless, I know)  
  
Chapter 10  
  
When the hay cart at last passed through the Great Gate in the late afternoon, it was met by the City Guard, who assumed the duty of escorting the sons of the steward to the Houses of Healing in the sixth circle. Word had quickly circulated throughout the city of Lord Faramir's disappearance, but it hadn't prepared the citizens of Minas Tirith, who were just going about their everyday business, for the sight that greeted their eyes as the wain passed by them. Many called blessings out after him. Some immediately dropped upon their knees and prayed. Others thought him already dead and wept bitterly as he was borne past.  
  
Boromir kept his face down as they moved through the streets, concentrating only upon Faramir. He was secretly glad that his brother was unaware of this outpouring of concern from the Gondorians, knowing that the ranger would be embarrassed if he knew that he had been seen thusly by so many. It was gratifying for Boromir, though, to know that their people loved the Lord Faramir so much, for often the ranger had expressed concern that his apparent unworthiness kept him from being truly loved by anyone but Boromir. It was a ridiculous thought, of course, but the warrior had never been able to convince Faramir otherwise. The damage that their father had inflicted upon him had affected him very deeply.  
  
Boromir took a sidelong glance at the strange woman who rode silently with them. She seemed to be trying to keep out of sight, and he decided that it was probably because she was unused to crowds. But she need not have worried about them, for the people of Gondor had eyes only for Faramir this day. Boromir grimaced when he thought about how he would explain her presence to his father, knowing that Denethor would never believe what Faramir had said about her, especially when he didn't believe it himself. Hoping for her sake that her wish to help was genuine, he murmured grimly under his breath, "Denethor shall find you very interesting indeed."  
  
He was startled to find that she had been able to hear his words, as she said, "If you are speaking of your father, I have no doubt that he shall, though I doubt that I shall be a welcome sight for him."  
  
The warrior nodded in agreement. "It would probably be best if you were not seen by him at all."  
  
"How am I to remain close to your brother then?"  
  
He considered her for a moment. "Whose blood was upon that orcish blade that I found upon the ground next to my brother? Was it yours?"  
  
She considered him now. "Nay. I am uninjured," she answered at length.  
  
"But I found no sword wound in my brother's flesh."  
  
She would have to tell him the truth eventually. "I took it from him."  
  
Boromir narrowed his eyes as he stared into the black depths of her hood, uncertain that he had heard her correctly. "What do you mean that you took it from him? You took the blade from him?"  
  
"Look upon his chest, upon the skin on the left side, near his heart. There is a faint red scar there that shall fade in time." Boromir gently moved the cloaks away from Faramir's chest and searched as she spoke. He found the mark as she said, "If his back was not yet so badly injured, you would find a matching mark there where the blade entered his body."  
  
"Faramir has never been seriously injured in combat before. If he had been, I would have been informed. Yet here is a scar that is unfamiliar to me." He looked back to her.  
  
"That was the wound that killed him this morning, orch-inflicted with the blade that you found. I took it from him."  
  
Boromir's mouth gaped. "What?" he whispered. His mind was reeling in disbelief.  
  
She continued. "Your name was the last word that he spoke. . . . Boromir."  
  
"You expect me to believe that he was dead this morning, but now he lives?" the Man groaned.  
  
"It is truth. He died of his wounds, but I returned his life to him."  
  
"But how is that possible?"  
  
"It is my gift," she murmured, though briefly Boromir thought from the tone of her voice that she considered it anything but a gift.  
  
Slowly, the warrior covered his brother again and then sat quietly, holding his hand, stroking the fingers as he thought, trying to decide what was the truth. The wain had nearly reached the sixth circle before Boromir arrived at a decision. "You know as well as I do that no man can live long with the wounds that Faramir has sustained. If you can help him as you say, then do it now, before we arrive at the Houses of Healing."  
  
"I wish that I could, but . . . something happened that prevents me from helping him further until I have recovered my strength." She bowed her head, her gaze upon Faramir.  
  
"Do not play me false!" exclaimed Boromir, his ire rising quickly.  
  
"I would not, but I require a few more hours of rest before I can aid him further. I wish that it was not so."  
  
"As do I," he mumbled. He spared one last caress for Faramir's fingers before he rose quickly, leaping over the side of the cart and onto the road, indicating that she should do the same. The City Guard continued on, saying nothing as she followed him. He quickly led her into an inn called the Brindle Boar. The innkeeper greeted his lord with a smile, though he looked very curious about Boromir's mysterious companion. There were a few quietly-spoken words between the Men, and the warrior slipped the innkeeper a few coins before he turned back to her.  
  
"Here you must stay until I come for you."  
  
"But I cannot stray too far from your brother, else I cannot maintain his painless rest. Already I am losing sense of him."  
  
Boromir looked doubtful but then sighed as he rubbed his face tiredly. He wished that it was he who was getting some rest. "It cannot be helped. At the soonest opportunity, I will fetch you again to his side."  
  
She nodded and, following the innkeeper, climbed the stairs to the second level. Quickly, the warrior left the building, running to catch the wain before it stopped at the entrance to the Houses of Healing, hoping that his father would arrive there quickly and then leave just as quickly. 


	11. Confession

A/N: Here's a longer chapter for you, Rosie26! Thanks for all the great reviews everyone!

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Chapter 11  
  
It was not long before a messenger, out of breath, arrived in the throne room, quickly bowing before Lord Denethor. The servant observed the accepted protocol by kneeling before the steward and kissing his ring before he spoke.  
  
"Lord Steward, your son Faramir has been found in the forest of South Ithilien and has been taken to the Houses of Healing. It appears that he has been captured and tortured by a band of orcs, my lord."  
  
"What is his condition?"  
  
"It is grave, my lord."  
  
Denethor rose and dismissed the messenger from his presence. It took him only a minute to master his emotions before he summoned his guards to his side. Together they moved through the halls of the Citadel, taking the tunnel down to the sixth tier of the city, emerging from it very close to the edge of the gardens that surround the Houses of Healing.  
  
It was not right that the sun had shone so brightly today when his son had lain badly wounded, he thought. As he entered the building, he steeled himself for what he might find. Boromir met him in the corridor before the door that led to his youngest son, and Denethor nearly lost his composure at the bleak expression upon his eldest son's face.  
  
"Father." Boromir nodded to his father.  
  
"How is he, son?"  
  
"Not well, I am afraid, Father."  
  
_Why does he not look me in the eye when he speaks?_ "Speak plainly, Boromir!"  
  
Boromir sighed. "He is dying, Father."  
  
The blood drained from Denethor's face as he closed his eyes. _No! This cannot be happening! Not again!_ He felt Boromir's hand upon his arm, steadying him. Though he wanted nothing more than to embrace Boromir and weep for all of the lost time, it was not befitting the Steward of Gondor to do so. Opening his eyes, he shrugged off the hand and stepped through the door without hesitation.  
  
Inside of the well-lit room was a bed surrounded by three healers, all working quietly. Only one looked up from her work: Ioreth.  
  
"Lord Denethor, you cannot be in here now."  
  
She started to usher him from the room, but he stilled her with a look. "I would not abandon my son in his time of need, Ioreth. Continue your work, and I shall quietly watch from here."  
  
Ioreth nodded. "Of course, Lord Steward." She returned to the bedside as he tried to catch a glimpse of Faramir's face. All that he could tell from his position near the door was that his son was resting upon his side. Occasionally he could be heard to moan or hiss in pain as the healers manipulated his broken body back into some semblance of normalcy.  
  
There was a sudden shift in the atmosphere of the room, and Denethor shuddered inwardly when he looked to Ioreth's face. It was the first time in all of the years that he had known the woman that he didn't see any hope for his son in her features. Boromir had been right; Faramir was dying.  
  
She curtly dismissed the other healers before she beckoned the steward to a chair at his son's bedside, and she moved to her patient's back, beginning to tend the wounds there. Denethor's fear almost overcame him as he finally saw his youngest son's battered face in profile against the pillows, the black bruises around his neck showing in stark contrast against the paleness of his skin. Slowly the steward moved to the chair, composing himself as he did, and when he sat, he had a smile upon his face for Faramir.  
  
"My son," he called softly, and the grey eyes opened slowly. They widened a moment in seeming disbelief, before filling with wariness, as the lieutenant took a shuddering breath.  
  
"Father, please . . . forgive my . . . lateness," whispered the ever- dutiful ranger.  
  
"It matters not, Faramir." He took a moment to look over his son's wounds, noting the splinted ankle, the hand swaddled in linen, bandages swathed across his ribs. He wondered what Ioreth was tending that took so much of her attention. Faramir gasped in sudden agony as Ioreth began to dab a healing salve onto his wounded back, and his father asked, "Is the pain very unpleasant, my son?"  
  
Faramir swallowed convulsively, trying to find his voice, but merely nodded, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. His father took up a cool, damp cloth from the table next to the bed and patted it gently against his son's damp brow. "Shh, be hush, and listen well, my boy," said Denethor, stroking the dark hair away from his son's face, as Faramir watched him and waited, silent but for his panting breaths. "So much you resemble your mother," the steward murmured almost to himself. Again the grey eyes widened briefly in surprise before Denethor's demeanor became much more serious.  
  
"I am told that your condition is not good, Faramir. Your very survival is in doubt." The ranger nodded, his anguished expression unchanged. "But I wish you to know that my words to you today do not wholly stem from that. Before I knew. . . . Before now, I felt that I needed to say something to you in a manner of apology, for I have treated you abominably throughout the years."  
  
Faramir bit his lip against the fierce pain, and the tears finally spilled from his eyes as Denethor continued speaking, all the while stroking the cloth gently over his son's face. "Ever have I blamed you for what happened to your mother. After you were born, she never was the same again. Your birth was a particularly difficult one, and it was a long labor in the heat of the summer. It took nearly all of her strength to deliver you into this world, but she did it gladly and without complaint, for she loved you from the moment that she knew you were coming. But she grew ill soon after, and she lingered, I think, only because she wanted you to grow up having some idea of what she was like before she . . . departed us.  
  
"It seemed to me that everything she did in her last years was for you, for you were a rather needy baby. Ofttimes you were ill, and it was all she and your nurse could do sometimes just to pull you through. On two separate occasions, when you were very young, I can recall Ioreth here warning me that you might not live through the night. But in the end, you were much stronger than any of us knew, and you lived despite the grim outlook for your survival.  
"Through everything, I worked ceaselessly as the Steward of Gondor, relying heavily upon your mother to raise you boys to an age where you would be able to assume your duties as Sons of Gondor. I took her for granted, my boy, and I was a fool."  
  
Denethor paused long enough to make certain he would not lose his composure before he continued. "After she was gone, I found myself without purpose. The only things I have ever known is being a soldier and being a steward. Your grandfather, Ecthelion, was a poor example to me, as he treated me much the same as I have treated you. So I had no idea how to be a father to you two boys. Luckily, Boromir was of an age that he could begin training for his adult life, though ten was a rather young age for that. But it was all that I knew to do with him, so I pressed him into it early, and he thrived upon it.  
  
"You, however, were a different story. You were so little. I can yet remember standing at her grave side those many years ago, wondering what I should do with you. We were nearly strangers, you and I. We still are, I suppose." He grinned at Faramir, and again his son looked surprised. "I knew not that you are such a gifted artist. I knew not that you are a musician. I did know that you loved to read but not that your love of books is so great that you have hoarded more than a few titles within your own rooms!" He stroked Faramir's cheek with his fingers as alarm showed plainly in the silvery eyes, but Denethor smiled slightly, answering the unspoken question. "Yes, I entered your rooms without your permission. Fear not! I was not displeased by what I found!"  
  
The steward sobered suddenly. "Ever have you been exceptionally wise for your years, but still I knew not what to do with such a young child, so I spent the lion's share of my time with your brother and left you to fend for yourself amongst your various nurses and teachers, most especially Mith . . . but, no, I shall not mention the wizard's name now." He brushed aside his anger and continued. "Oft you would come to me under some pretense so that you might merely receive some attention from your father. Many times I sent you away from me, to my great shame, unwilling to even listen to your voice. Ofttimes I did not send you away, to my even greater shame. If I had owned the patience, I would have listened to you when you spoke to me, no matter how trivial the subject might have seemed to be at the time. Instead, I allowed your attempts to draw my attention away from Boromir to anger me, and I took it out upon you. I wish with all my heart that I could change the past and so take some of the scars of my anger away from you." He sighed.  
  
"As you grew, I expected that you should be able to assume your duties at the same age that Boromir had. But, alas, you are not your brother. You are Faramir of Gondor, and I should have treated you as such. Instead, I saw a boy who was weak and incapable. When I tried to treat you as I had Boromir at ten, I found that you were not ready for adulthood like your brother had been. It was a simple fact, but I refused to acknowledge it. Instead I attempted to mold you into his likeness, taking away your time in the library to encourage you to practice with your sword more often, forcing you sometimes to keep at it all night." Denethor patted his son's hand. "But you know all of this already, Faramir, for you have lived it."  
  
He lowered his voice as he leaned closer to his son's face, fascinated that the boy's eyes even had tiny blue flecks within the grey just as Finduilas' eyes had. "The main thing that I wish you to know is this. Though you are headstrong occasionally and stubborn often, what happened to your mother was not your fault. What happened when I tried to press you too quickly into adulthood was not your fault. Many of our disagreements have been due to my shortcomings, my failings. You have been the best son that you could be to me through the years. I am proud of you." Then in a softer voice, he added, "I love you, Faramir. Never forget the day that your father finally admitted your worth to you, my boy."  
  
Faramir closed his eyes for a moment, wondering if this was but a dream. At last, finding his voice, he said, "I shall . . . not, Father, not . . . for as long . . . as I live."  
  
Denethor smiled. "I am glad of that." He turned his attention to the woman behind his son. "Shall I stay while you finish tending his wounds, Ioreth?"  
  
She nodded, smiling through her own tears. "I think your presence shall be a great comfort to your son, Lord Denethor." 


	12. Belief

A/N: Sorry all on the relatively slow update, but my hard drive crashed, and it took me a couple of days to retrieve my things from it and get my computer fixed. This story has finally surpassed the fifty-review mark! Thanks all! I'm glad you're enjoying it.

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Chapter 12  
  
Denethor emerged from Faramir's room well past dark, after his son finally had fallen into a restless sleep. Boromir was still pacing in the hallway, and Denethor was surprised by it.  
  
"Boromir, have you taken no rest for yourself?"  
  
"Nay, Father. I am too anxious about Faramir. How fares he?"  
  
The steward glanced at the floor for a moment. "His condition is the same, though now he is thoroughly bandaged. Perhaps he shall yet survive this."  
  
Boromir nodded, unable to meet his father's gaze when it returned to his son's face. "I would like to sit with him for a while as well, Father."  
  
Denethor nodded and clapped his eldest upon the shoulder. "Thank you for bringing him home to me, Boromir," he said. Then he smiled. "Now go sit with your Fara. I am certain that your presence only can truly bring him peace."  
  
"Thank you, Father," said Boromir, watching as Denethor strode down the corridor, meeting his waiting guards before he departed the Houses of Healing. Quietly Boromir entered the room, the only illumination within coming from the glowing hearth, the light of the low flames dancing upon his brother's motionless features. Ioreth looked up from the chair next to the bed, and immediately stood when she saw who had entered, trying to hide the fact that she was wiping tears from her eyes. "My lady," said Boromir quietly.  
  
"Boromir, now is not the time to be formal with me, for I helped to raise you both from the time you were babes." She bowed her head, a fresh wave of tears threatening. "Whatever shall we do without dear Faramir?"  
  
"Ioreth, is there truly no hope for him?"  
  
She shook her head, as she pulled a kerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. "His ribs are broken beyond repair, Boromir. Would that I could do something for him besides watching him slip away from us."  
  
"Please, Ioreth," said Boromir, and the healer heard within his voice traces of the boy he had once been. "Would you stay with him awhile longer? I have something that I need to tend to, but it shall not take more than a few minutes, I promise."  
  
Her brow furrowed slightly. "Something more important than your brother?"  
  
"Nay, it is for him that I do it. Please, Ioreth." He waited, half- expecting her to scold him, but she nodded finally, and he leaned in, kissing her soundly on the cheek. "I shall not be long!" And he stampeded from the room as he would have when he had been a boy. Ioreth sighed and sank back into the chair to keep watch for Faramir's passing.  
  
Boromir strode purposefully through the corridors until he was outside, and then he ran to the Brindle Boar as if the whole of Sauron's host was behind him.

* * *

Boromir had been given plenty of time to wonder about his little brother's strange words in the forest as he had waited outside of Faramir's room, pacing while Denethor was within. _She has taken my soul!_ The statement rang through his head again and again. And though the warrior had discounted the idea as being the invention of a distraught mind, now he was not so certain.  
  
The female had followed Faramir of her own volition, and as his brother had seemed so much more at peace with her nearby, Boromir had allowed her to come into the city with them. Nothing that Boromir had said to his brother had made him change his mind about her presence. She now followed him into the room, her face still hidden by her black hood. Ioreth still sat silently in the chair next to his brother, but stood when she saw this new visitor, her face paling visibly.  
  
_She has taken my soul!  
_  
Boromir had shuddered involuntarily as he had reentered Faramir's dimly-lit room, silently crossing to Ioreth, thanking her softly for waiting. She nodded wordlessly, sparing more than one glance for his companion as she patted Faramir's hand one last time and then left the room.  
  
Boromir sat upon the chair, perching only upon the edge of it, grimacing as he once again laid eyes on his brother's bandaged body, listened to his brother's labored breathing. He could feel the woman's eyes upon him, making him feel decidedly uncomfortable, but he said nothing, just calmly observing the slow rise and fall of the ranger's chest.  
  
"Do you fear me?" she asked quietly, her musical voice anything but soothing, as she settled into a chair in the corner.  
  
"I fear naught," answered Boromir a little too quickly, adding, "naught but the loss of my brother."  
  
"You have great pride. It is fitting for a Man of your station to have such pride, Lord Boromir."  
  
He turned and glared at her. "It escapes me how I have allowed you to learn my name when I do not yet know yours."  
  
"I am Lachdúliel."  
  
"What do you intend to do with him, Lachdúliel?" asked Boromir with characteristic directness.  
  
"As he is in need," she replied mildly, "I shall place my hands upon his body and take the injuries from him, giving him my strength. Will you allow your fears to prevent me from helping him?"  
  
Boromir turned back to Faramir, unable to gaze upon his pale face for very long. The warrior sighed uncertainly and ran a hand through his dark hair.  
  
"My lady, how can I allow you to lay your hands upon my brother when I know naught of you? How can I know that you do not mean him harm? He is a son of the Steward of Gondor. Our enemies actively seek our deaths, knowing what we are to the people of Gondor."  
  
She remained silent, and Boromir decided that she must be lost in thought.  
  
"He says that you have taken his soul," murmured the warrior, taking Faramir's good hand in his own.  
  
The Elf laughed quietly, the mere sound causing Faramir to stir in his sleep, a slight smile flitting across his features. "I wondered how he might interpret our. . .joining."  
  
Boromir turned back to her, his expression a mixture of confusion and outrage. "Joining? My brother is an honorable man!"  
  
She silenced him with a gesture of her hand. "Forgive me. That was a poor label for what has occurred, Lord Boromir. Perhaps a more accurate phrase might be 'mental convergence'."  
  
"What does that mean?" spat Boromir, heedless now of his sleeping brother.  
  
"If you wish to hear it, I shall tell you the entire story, though I warn you, it is long and unhappy. And, even as we speak, he bleeds inside, his lungs fail him little by little." She stood and Boromir immediately did the same. "He has only minutes left to him. As you are his brother, I would assume that you would wish him to survive his injuries by any means available. Is your pride worth more even than his life?" She took a step closer. "Please. It pains me to see him suffer, as I know it pains you. Please, allow me to help him before it is too late. I can only gift him his life once, and that has already been done."  
  
Boromir was not a trusting man by nature, but there was something reassuring about her. "Lower your hood, my lady. I would see the face of the one who professes to be able to miraculously raise my brother from the dead."  
  
She hesitated only a moment before she turned to her left and then lowered the hood from her head, the soft, black folds falling about her shoulders, revealing a pale Elven profile, her features startlingly beautiful in the dancing light of the fire. Her long hair, black as night, surrounded a delicately pointed ear. Never had he laid his eyes upon a Elf before, and Boromir was amazed by her loveliness. Had Faramir allowed himself to be blinded by her beauty?  
  
Lowering her face, she looked down upon the floor before she turned toward Boromir and then raised her face to him. Boromir could not help but gasp. Whereas the right side of her face was smooth and pale and lovely, the left side was scarred and red and horrifying, her features bent and stretched out of shape.  
  
"Forgive me, Lady Lachdúliel," murmured the warrior, lowering his eyes from the sight as he belatedly realized that he was staring at her.  
  
"There is naught to forgive, my lord. You are honest in your reaction to me, and I do not fault you for it."  
  
Boromir found himself trembling. "My lady, what befell you?" he asked quietly, returning his gaze to her face, his eyes steadfast.  
  
"As I said, it is a long and unhappy story, but for now, it suffices to say that you and I have the same enemy, my lord." Boromir nodded. She gestured toward the bed. "Your brother?"  
  
The elder turned back toward the younger. Boromir knew that Faramir would not make it through the night. No one with injuries as severe as this should have been able to live so long as he had. Little brother, ever have I trusted your judgment. Do not fail me this time. Aloud he said, "Whatever it is, do it."  
  
Lachdúliel nodded slightly and moved to Faramir's side, sitting upon the mattress next to him. She reached out mentally to him, gently entering his slumber, bidding him to awaken. As the ranger's eyes fluttered open, the Elf began to unfasten the bandages from Faramir's torso, removed her gloves, and then softly laid her hands upon his ribs.  
  
Boromir watched in wonder as an amber-tinged light flared there, enveloping his little brother's body. Faramir shuddered a little and then sighed deeply in relief, finally able to draw a full breath without pain. When the Elf at last removed her hands, she slumped forward slightly as if she were ill and Boromir moved toward her, thinking that she might topple from the edge of the bed.  
  
"No." Though said with in a weak voice, the single word was a command, and the warrior obeyed, stopping in his tracks as he watched her recover herself and then replace her gloves. His gaze moved to his brother's face, and his heart melted in relief when he saw Faramir's wan smile directed at him. Boromir sank down onto his knees next to his brother's bed, and the ranger took the warrior's hand in his own, bringing it to his lips, kissing it once.  
  
Faramir then turned his attention to Lachdúliel and spoke to her in the language of the Elves. Boromir didn't know why, but he was greatly concerned by the expression within his brother's eyes as Faramir gazed upon her.  
  
"My lady?" queried Boromir, as he stood up, wondering about the Elf as she nodded but said nothing, obviously suffering some ill effects from providing relief for the ranger. Trembling, she stood slowly and turned toward Boromir, her face a mask of pain.  
  
"I should have. . . ." She took a step toward him, and he barely had time to catch her as she collapsed into his arms. 


	13. Consciousness

A/N: Thanks to athelas63 for labeling me a schizo! :) I must be doing something right!!

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Chapter 13  
  
Faramir had thought to die in Ithilien, slain unmercifully at the hands of the enemy, unable to defend himself against the hands of so many orcs that had sought his destruction. Unbelievably, he had found that he yet lived, a unknown female leaning over him as he had awakened, gasping quietly in excruciating pain. His eyes would not focus, but though she was dressed all in black, he knew instantly that she was a friend, his friend, and he reached for her, desperate to keep anyone who was friendly close to himself. For some unknown reason, just touching her hand brought him marvelous relief. At the same time, it was disconcerting as his mind was instantly flooded with unfamiliar thoughts, thousands of them rushing through his brain, peaceful and happy at first before suddenly turning into torturous thoughts of death and despair. He even saw his own torture, his death at the hands of the orc with a sword, the Elf finding him dead. . . . Was he dead after all?  
  
When she suddenly pulled away from his grasp without so much as a word, he learned that the pain he had experienced before had been nothing. It was a hard lesson, and he could not hold himself silent any longer, wailing as the agonizing wave slammed into his body, rendering him mindless. There was nothing but pain for what seemed an eternity until he heard a soft, musical voice, speaking ever so softly to him, felt a gloved hand upon his brow. Her tears were wetting his face as she softly apologized to him in Sindarin, and though she quietly promised to help him, the relief that he had felt at her presence had dissolved now into fear. As he sank back into darkness, he panicked, realizing that he was no longer alone in his private thoughts.  
  
The next thing he knew, Boromir was with him, his face betraying the grave condition that Faramir knew himself to be in. Breathing was extremely difficult, but the ranger needed to find out where Lachdúliel had gone. He had so many questions for her, as he searched his mind for memories that would explain what had happened to him, no, to them. It was obvious that Boromir thought his little brother was delirious, but Faramir had to make him see the truth of the matter, though the pain in his body was nearly blinding in its intensity.  
  
His memories grew fuzzy here, but he remembered when Lachdúliel had finally returned to him and how she communicated with him through her thoughts. It was a strange way to converse, but it was so much more efficient than speaking aloud, especially when one could not breathe properly. But before he could ask but one question, the pain was fading, and he was peacefully drifting into unconsciousness again, remembering her words.  
  
_. . . we are each burdened with the other's pain . . .  
_  
And then his father's face was swimming before his eyes, an odd, loving expression fixed upon it. With his consciousness, the pain had returned with a vengeance, each touch upon his body its own torment, but his father had demanded his attention, and Faramir listened as well as he could, trying his best to ignore the agony of his tortured back, where Ioreth was tending his wounds. Had Denethor not been there, bathing his son's face while speaking softly to him, Faramir would have begged his nurse, without shame, to save her efforts, for in addition to the pain she was causing, he could feel his life slowly slipping from him. Had he been alone with her, he would have begged her to hold him as she had when he had been little, willing himself to slip into death while safe within her arms.  
  
But his father prevented that, and as Faramir listened with tears falling from his eyes, he heard the most amazingly shocking words pouring from the steward's lips. Words of understanding and acceptance reached his ears, and, not for the first time today, he thought that he must be dreaming.  
  
_Nay, Faramir, do not be daft. It is only his guilt which speaks this day_, he thought to himself, but the longer he listened, the more sincere the words seemed. When at last his father told his youngest son that he loved him, Faramir was stunned. And the ranger knew as he spoke the words aloud to Denethor that indeed, he would never forget that his father had at last relented and showed his true feelings this one time.  
  
Ioreth continued her torturous ministrations upon his body, but he was exhausted. His father bade him sleep, and he did as well as he could to obey.  
  
Through the darkness, Faramir finally heard Lachdúliel calling to him, and he wearily went toward her voice. When he opened his eyes, he found her and Boromir with him in the room at the Houses of Healing, only now it was dimly lit. Though he felt wretched, he was determined to ask his questions now, but he found that his body would no longer allow him to speak, as the Elf loosened his bandages from his damaged ribs.  
  
He tentatively sent his thoughts toward her, but Lachdúliel seemed to ignore him, as Faramir watched her removed her gloves. As she rested her bare hands upon his torso, a strange light glowed around her hands, which felt unnaturally warm to him. When the light eventually enveloped him, he was filled with the same feeling that he had experienced when first she had come to him, the welcome relief from the pain causing him to sigh aloud, before he freely drew air into his healed lungs.  
  
Boromir drew nearer, a look of wonder upon his weary features, and Faramir could not help but smile at him. His big brother knelt next to him then, and Faramir took his hand within his own before he turned his attention back to the Elf. "My lady," he finally whispered, speaking aloud in Sindarin, "thank you." Never will I take breathing for granted again, my lady. Faramir watched the black-clad Elf maiden next to him as she rested her gaze upon his face and then nodded in recognition of his words and thoughts, the delicate and ruined features both framed with hair as black as his own, her amber-tinted eyes now glassy with pain, his pain. He didn't fully understand what she had done, but he was grateful to her anyway.  
  
Boromir was speaking to her as he stood, and then she replied before she fell insensible into his arms. The warrior cursed softly as he gently laid her upon the floor next to Faramir's bed, while Faramir tried to send his thoughts to her. But it was no use, she was beyond his reach. "Bo?" he questioned, and his weary voice conveyed all of his worry. Boromir remained hunched over her for a moment longer before he answered.  
  
"She is just exhausted, little brother." He stood and stepped into the corridor, searching for someone to help. Finally he spotted a young female healer emerging from another room, closing the door softly behind herself. "My lady, I require some aid in Lord Faramir's room," he said urgently. She nodded as he retreated to his brother's room while she quickly found Ioreth.  
  
"Lady Ioreth, it is Lord Faramir!" she said in a rush.  
  
Ioreth nodded and took a deep, steadying breath before she said, "Fetch Lord Denethor quickly." The younger woman nodded and flew from the building as Ioreth gathered her courage and started toward Faramir's room, hoping that she still might have the opportunity to say goodbye to him before he passed beyond the veil.


	14. Miscommunication

A/N: Another shorty chapter . . . sorry. Please keep reviewing though! :)  
  
Chapter 14  
  
"Lord Denethor?" The words slowly permeated the slumber that the steward had inadvertently fallen into. He raised his head from where he had rested it upon his arms at his desk in his personal study. He blinked his eyes as the male servant softly said his name again.  
  
"What is it?" he growled at last.  
  
"My lord, it is your son Faramir. The healers say that it is time."  
  
Denethor's heart sank, and he stood quickly. "Yes, of course," he murmured, drawing a hand over his face. "What time is it?" he asked absently.  
  
"It is about two hours before dawn, Lord Steward."  
  
The steward nodded, politely dismissing the servant as he drew on his discarded robe over his wrinkled clothing. He left his rooms and his residence without bothering to call his guards to his side. There was no need for them to accompany him, and besides, he wished to be alone. Denethor strode purposefully through the darkened streets of Minas Tirith, his city lying silent beneath the black velvet sky flooded with stars. There was little comfort to be found in their steady, eternal light on this, the darkest of all nights. One son would be dead by dawn, and the other would be crushed by grief.  
  
_Ah, Finduilas, I never thought it should be this difficult! What am I to do when the sun rises?_ His steps faltered as he reached the edge of the gardens. _It is too difficult, my wife. How can I continue when I know what awaits me in that room? It shall be like reliving that night nineteen years ago, the night when you finally decided to leave us.  
_  
"Why did you leave me alone here?" he murmured, tears threatening.  
  
"My lord?" Denethor was startled out of his musing by a passing guard who had stopped and awaited his steward's command.  
  
"Nothing," he muttered. "Carry on with your patrol."  
  
The soldier bowed and departed, and Denethor used the interruption to regain control of himself before he continued to the Houses of Healing, pushing his feelings aside for later.

* * *

Faramir was captivated by the flood of emotions that crossed Ioreth's face as she entered his room. She looked so grim as she opened the door, softly closing it behind her before she looked to him. When she realized that his eyes were open, he quickly saw confusion, disbelief, anger for a moment when she looked over to Boromir for an explanation. She took two steps closer to Faramir's bed as skepticism tinged with hope returned to her expression.  
  
"Faramir?"  
  
"Yes, Ioreth," he murmured softly. It was impossible to keep the smile from his face as she exhaled sharply and rushed to his side.  
  
"What has happened?" she asked, unable to accept this unexpected development as truth, for she had _known_ that he was going to die. When last he had closed his eyes, she had _known_ that it was for the last time. What had changed? She gently began to remove the bandages that had already been loosened for some odd reason.  
  
"Ioreth," said Boromir, but she seemed not to hear him, as she looked upon Faramir with nothing short of wonder and amazement as she tentatively touched his torso, finding his ribs whole and undamaged. Faramir smiled more broadly and reached his good hand to her, and she grasped it as if it were a lifeline.  
  
"My boy, you are a marvel," she murmured, tears welling within her tired blue eyes. Boromir was still trying to get her attention, and finally Faramir had to tell the healer that he was not the reason that she had been summoned. "What is it, Boromir?" she asked, never moving her eyes from Faramir's face.  
  
"There is another here who requires your aid, Lady." Only then did her attention waver as she looked to where Boromir was pointing upon the floor and saw an unmoving form there, the hooded figure who had entered the room just before she had left it earlier.  
  
Quickly Ioreth was on the other side of the bed, knelt over Lachdúliel. "Who is this?" she spoke as she checked the Elf's pulse. When the healer gasped in shock at Lachdúliel's face, Boromir knelt as well.  
  
"This is Lady Lachdúliel, and she is the reason that Fara is doing so well, but I am afraid that she has overtaxed herself."  
  
"Indeed, she seems to be fine other than those horrible scars upon her face, and there is naught that I can do for that." Ioreth stood. "Perhaps when your father arrives. . . . Oh my, I had forgotten that I sent a message to your father! He must be beside himself with worry!"  
  
"Bo, you must get her out of here before Father arrives," said Faramir. Boromir had already lifted the Elf into his arms, intending to find a vacant room along the same corridor for her to rest in.  
  
Lord Denethor's angry voice suddenly boomed within the confines of the small room. "Faramir, you look amazingly well for someone who is supposedly on death's doorstep, and why in Eru's name must you hide _her_ from me?!" 


	15. Discovery

A/N: Here's another quick (and short) chapter for you all. It's gonna be a busy weekend so I probably won't post another until Sunday night or Monday. And for anyone who cares, I have just started on my sequel to "The River Poros". So, now I'm writing three stories at once, and I have another hovering in the back of my mind. Feeling a little dizzy here. . . . Enjoy! And thanks for the great reviews!  
  
Chapter 15  
  
"Father," began Boromir. "There has been a misunderstanding. Ioreth thought when I sent for her that Faramir had taken a turn for the worse, but that is not true. In fact, he is much improved." At the moment, Faramir did not look particularly improved. His eyes were closed, and what little color that had returned to his face had long fled.  
  
"Who is this?" growled Denethor, indicating the Elf with a jab of his finger.  
  
"She is a friend, Father," murmured Faramir, who otherwise did not move.  
  
"She is an Elf!" roared the steward when he spied her pointed ear. "What is going on here?"  
  
Boromir spoke as if to a child, "Father, this Elf saved Faramir's life!"  
  
"What nonsense is this? She is insensible!" He whirled to face his youngest son. "What have you to say about this?"  
  
Faramir warily opened his eyes and looked unwaveringly upon his father's angry face and said in hoarse but quietly steady voice, "If it had not been for her intervention, I should be dead now, Father."  
  
Denethor moved closer for the attack. "What was that, Son? Did you speak? How dare you try to mislead me about the seriousness of your condition?! I thought to come here only to have enough time left to say my goodbyes to you!"  
  
"Father. . . ."  
  
"Hush you, Boromir!" He then turned his wrath upon Ioreth. "I thought that there was no hope for him!"  
  
"My lord, his condition is as much of a surprise to me as it is to you. I, too, thought that there was no hope," she said quietly, wringing her hands in obvious discomfort. Denethor regarded her silently for a moment.  
  
"You may go, Ioreth."  
  
The healer nodded and bowed stiffly before she left the room, closing the door softly behind her. Immediately Denethor moved to stand before Boromir, interested in the warrior's burden. "Who is this Elf then? A patient here? Why was I not informed that an Elf had entered my city?"  
  
"It is my fault, Father," explained Boromir. "I brought her to Minas Tirith without your knowledge."  
  
"And why did you do such a thing? You know that Elves cannot be trusted!"  
Boromir was more than willing to lie to his father for Faramir's sake, for he had done it often in the past. But as he opened his mouth to speak, Faramir cut him off.  
  
"I should have thought that you would be happy to see me yet alive, my lord."  
  
Denethor raised an eyebrow as he turned again toward his youngest son. "Meaning?"  
  
"Meaning, sir, that you are overreacting. I am much better, and if you would only listen, I can explain what has happened."  
  
The steward was instantly beside Faramir's bed, his hands clenched at his sides. He leaned down and shouted, "Speak plainly, whelp! I grow weary of your never-ending deceit!"  
  
Boromir tried to draw the unwanted attention back to himself. "Father, please have a care! He remains injured, even if he is not in danger of dying any longer."  
  
The steward moved to the door of the room before he spoke. "It appears, Boromir, that your hands are full. Perhaps you should deal with your own burden first before you try to take on those of your brother."  
  
Little does he know! Boromir thought as his father opened the door for him, ushering him into the hall and slamming the door soundly behind him, turning the lock, leaving his eldest son standing in the corridor.  
  
Boromir sighed and walked down the hallway a short distance to the unoccupied room next door. After entering, he gently laid the Elf upon the bedclothes and then sat in a nearby chair wondering what he should do now. The warrior was exhausted, and he felt his weariness pulling at him now that he knew Faramir would live.  
  
"Denethor!" The word was a curse upon his lips. "You know," he said quietly to the insensible Elf, "I loathe saying it aloud, but it might have been better for Fara had you allowed him to die. Never have he and Father gotten along. Father treats him worse than a dog, in fact." He moved his head from side to side, attempting to stretch the muscles in his neck, trying desperately to relax.  
  
"I thought eventually Father would warm up to Fara," he muttered. "After all, Faramir has done everything that the Lord Steward has ever demanded of him, and he has done it well. Why does the Man refuse to see?" Boromir leaned forward in the chair and rested his elbows upon his knees before burying his face in his hands. The moan that escaped his lips soon turned into a growl of wrath, and he stood quickly, pacing the floor just as he had done in the corridor earlier. "And always I am the one caught in the middle, trying to smooth Father's ruffled feathers, trying to ease Faramir's hurts. Cannot they see how difficult their relationship is for me?"  
  
With a sigh, he flung himself back into the chair, rubbing his face with his hands. "Would that I had been the one to collapse into a heap upon the floor!" he moaned. "Eru knows I could use the rest." As a soldier who had seen many years of service, Boromir had acquired the ability to sleep anywhere and anytime, so he arranged his large frame into the pitifully small chair, and allowed himself to doze, hoping Lachdúliel would awaken soon.  
  
It had only been an hour at most when he heard Faramir's anguished cry, "Father, please!" 


	16. Disbelief

A/N: Broken computers make me angry! Forgive the delay; I was computerless all weekend. The one I'm using now is pretty gimpy, and I wonder when it will explode as well. Anyway, thanks for your patience. Hopefully this thing will keep running, and I will be able to catch up on this story.

* * *

Chapter 16  
  
The ranger was shuddering with a combination of exhaustion and dread as Denethor sat in the bedside chair, regarding his youngest son with his usual expression of rage. "I cannot believe that I sat here and bared my soul to you. You must have found that very amusing, you little knave!" He folded his hands in his lap, instantly becoming the Steward of Gondor. "Now I shall have the full report that you were supposed to deliver to me yesterday morning, and then I shall have a complete account of all that befell you from the moment that you departed Henneth Annûn until I entered this room two minutes ago. Do not leave anything out!"  
  
Faramir sighed and nodded before tiredly obeying his father. Denethor sat expressionlessly throughout the speech as if he had been made of stone. The original report was not difficult to deliver since the ranger had memorized it before he had left the outpost. His ordeal at the hands of the orcs was another matter entirely. It was difficult to speak of what he had endured, the memories of it making him feel physically ill at some points. When he reached the point where Lachdúliel had found him, the ranger asked for some water to soothe his parched throat. The steward ignored him, and Faramir was forced to continue, his voice dwindling to a hoarse whisper before at last he was finished speaking.  
  
The steward continued to sit motionlessly for a few moments, considering his youngest son's words. "Is that all?" he finally asked.  
  
"Yes, my lord," murmured Faramir.  
  
"And you expect that I should accept your words as truth?"  
  
Faramir was becoming angry. "They are truth. Never in my life have I dared to say a word of untruth to you. Why do you choose to disbelieve me now?"  
  
Lightning fast, Denethor grasped Faramir's bandaged hand within his own and applied a steady, firm pressure to it. The ranger's gasp of anguish did nothing but further fuel the steward's anger. "How dare you lie to me? I should have known better than to expect you to be truthful with me," the steward said in a deadly quiet voice, seeming to take pleasure from the small sounds of pain that were escaping his son's lips.  
  
"P-please." The word was no more than a sob, the pain so fierce in his crushed hand that Faramir was trying to pry his father's fingers away with his other hand. "Father, please!" he cried as loudly as his voice would allow, hoping that someone would come soon and make his father see sense before the Man further injured him.  
  
"Right, you pathetic whelp! Try to fight me, will you?" Someone in the corridor tried the doorknob, but upon finding the door locked, resorted to knocking insistently upon the door. Faramir could no longer speak. He desperately clutched at his father's fingers as he felt his consciousness fading from him.  
  
"Fara?" It was Boromir's voice from the hallway, and Faramir marshaled enough strength to call out to him before Denethor slapped him savagely across the face. With a weary sob, the ranger lost consciousness only for a moment, though he remained dazed, his head lolling upon the pillow, his eyes staring unseeingly.  
  
"Fara? Father, what is happening?"  
  
"A moment only, Boromir," called the steward in a good-natured tone as he took a step backward, surveying his handiwork.  
  
"Father, open the door!" Boromir pounded upon the door fiercely. "Faramir?"  
  
Denethor calmly walked to the door and unlocked it. Boromir immediately crashed in. "Father?" he questioned. Upon seeing his father's calm demeanor, he glanced over to his brother, who was beginning to regain his senses. "What did you do?" he asked as he strode to Faramir's side.  
  
"I am not certain that I understand your question, Son. Your brother seemed to be having some sort of painful attack, and I did not wish to leave his side before it passed."  
  
Boromir had begun to bathe Faramir's face with a cool, damp cloth, noting the bright red mark upon his brother's cheek. He paused a moment in his ministrations and turned to glare at Denethor. "Why was the door locked?"  
  
"It must have become stuck, Boromir. You are always so eager to believe the worst about me. It pains me, Son."  
  
"I am certain that your pain does not even begin to match Faramir's, Father."  
  
Scowling, Denethor departed the room without another word, slamming the door behind himself.  
  
"Bo." Faramir's voice was faint. He tried to sit up, but the warrior held him fast. "Let me go. I need to leave this place."  
  
"You cannot, little brother. You are too weak."  
  
Faramir's grey eyes bored into Boromir's green ones. "You know that he shall kill me eventually."  
  
Boromir winced. "What did he do to you?"  
  
"It matters not, but I must go, perhaps back to Henneth Annûn where the rangers can look after me properly until I am sufficiently mended." Again he tried to shove himself up from the mattress, and this time Boromir allowed it, knowing that Faramir could not get far with his broken ankle.  
  
"And what if you should be attacked again on the way back there, Fara? No one is expecting your return for at least a week, and no one shall know that you are missing until it is too late."  
  
The ranger shifted his weight a bit, a grimace of pain crossing his features before he was at last sitting upon the mattress, the linen sheet that had covered him now puddled around his waist. "Then send me to Uncle Imrahil in Dol Amroth. It is only a short journey by boat, and I know that he would welcome me with open arms."  
  
"Perchance, Fara, but you shall still be charged as a deserter and sentenced to death if you run from Father." Boromir sat next to his brother. "Be logical, little brother."  
  
The warrior could feel his brother's ire rising. "I am being logical, Bo. He hates me. Only a short while ago when he thought that I was dying, he was proclaiming his love for me, and now that I am not dead, he is angry. Never shall I understand that man, and I am quite certain that it is a wholly good thing that I do not." Faramir's exhaustion threatened to force him down once more, but he swung his legs off of the mattress before he seemed to realize that he could not walk unaided with a broken ankle. He cursed softly, running his good hand through his hair. "You must help me, Boromir. I cannot do this alone."  
  
"Nay, Brother, you cannot do it alone, and that is well." Boromir stood. "Father shall come to his senses someday, Fara." He stepped to the door. "Please, do not fall out of bed. It might be rather embarrassing for you if some young lass should have to tuck you back in."  
  
"Boromir, do not leave me." It was said in a threatening tone, and though Boromir hated to deny Faramir anything, he knew that he must this once.  
  
"I shall return later. Until then, please, try to rest." As he stepped through the doorway and into the corridor, shutting the door behind him, he heard a muttered curse, and then something large and fragile, most likely the wash basin, broke against the interior of the door before Boromir went to find his own bed.

* * *

A/N: After reading the discussion on TORC about how people thought Denethor might have treated Faramir, I was considering completely rewriting this chapter, feeling that maybe Denethor isn't such an ogre. But I decided to leave it the way it is. If you belong to the camp who thinks that Denethor was only mentally abusive to his youngest, please forgive me. Personally, I think that the Steward of Gondor was probably both mentally and physically abusive to Faramir, though maybe not to this extent. Thanks! 


	17. Memories

A/N: Thanks for all of the great reviews!!

* * *

Chapter 17  
  
Faramir was left alone with his thoughts when Boromir departed the room, abandoning him. He was seething with anger, but there was nothing that he could do about his situation without aid. So he laid again upon his side, being as careful as possible not to pull at the welts upon his back and assessed his current situation. He knew that when next he saw his father, Denethor might be apologetic, and at the very least, civil. So the ranger did not have to worry about further abuse most likely for a few days. Perhaps Lachdúliel might be willing to help him away from this place. Unable to do anything else, Faramir turned his thoughts toward the Elf maiden, reaching toward her with his mind, but he did not feel her awareness rise within himself as he had before. Pulling his throbbing hand closer to himself, he thought upon the memories that belonged to her, now held within his consciousness.  
  
She was truly ancient. He could have sifted through the new information held within his brain for weeks, perhaps months, and still not touch upon even a quarter of her life experiences. But for some reason, he found that he was inexplicably drawn to her fearsome memories of Sauron and his possession of her and her father.  
  
It seemed that father and daughter had dwelt together in a deep, dark, nearly-forgotten part of Fangorn Forest when one day her father had been caught alone and unaware by a band of orcs. He had been slain by them in a similar fashion to how Faramir had been, and the ranger knew that Lachdúliel had aided him because of what had happened to her father.  
  
The Elf maiden had heard the commotion and stumbled upon the scene, unaware of the details of what had happened to her father. Instinctively, she had run to his ruined body and gave his life back to him with the group of orcs as witness to her power. And the orcs, being duly impressed by her display of magic, took both of them captive and dragged them to Dol Guldur at the heart of Mirkwood, an arduous journey considering the weight of the chains that they had been burdened with, and the poor conditions in which both Elves had been subject to during the journey. At every moment Lachdúliel had feared for her father, knowing within herself that she would not be able to save him a second time should he die again. But it had not been within the Necromancer's immediate plans that either of them should die.  
  
Sauron had been fascinated with the orcs' tale, and had taken her aside to question her. Her heart had thudded heavily in her chest as he had asked her to explain her abilities to him. Afraid, she had remained silent. Using his power, the Necromancer had struck an orc dead before her and then had asked that she bring its life back to it. When she had refused, he had threatened Lachdúliel's father. But she had begged him not to kill her Ada, explaining that she could not raise an orc from the dead, for its soul was too twisted for her to grasp.  
  
Sauron had nodded in seeming understanding and had an Elven slave fetched into the room. The male Elf had looked terrified to be brought before the Dark Lord as he had been shoved to his knees before the Necromancer. With a mirthless laugh, Sauron had slowly drawn a sharp dagger across the hapless creature's throat, enjoying the fear, and the Elf had shuddered and collapsed lifelessly into the growing pool of his own blood.  
  
Lachdúliel, with a horrified gasp, had run to him and had drawn his body into her embrace before she had laid her hands upon his ruined neck, causing the arteries and veins, muscle and tendon to knit, leaving only a scar upon the Elf's throat to show that he had ever been harmed.  
  
The Dark Lord had nodded his approval, leaning down and praising her. When the male Elf at last had opened his eyes, he had looked up at her with wonder and no little fear. But before Lachdúliel had been able to reassure him, Sauron had moved forward and cut the Elf's throat a second time, the blood spurting over her, staining her clothing, covering her skin.  
  
"Again!" demanded the Necromancer.  
  
"I cannot!" she had cried, doing all that she could to staunch the flow with her bare hands. The male Elf had caught one of her hands within his weakening grasp, and in the few seconds that it had taken him to die, she had seen his life flash before her eyes before he was gone.  
  
Weeping, she had glared up at her captor defiantly. "Why did you do that? This Elf had a family awaiting his return! Now they shall never see him again!"  
  
Sauron had raised a grizzled eyebrow at her. "Dare you to question me?" he asked before saying, "He was nothing to me. Another!" As the Maia called out, another victim, a young Man had been brought forth, struggling angrily within the orcs' grasp until he had seen the dead Elf upon the floor still resting in Lachdúliel's arms. The Man's eyes had filled with fear, and his curses had transformed to anguished prayers upon his lips.  
  
Lachdúliel had sat motionless, waiting, fear threatening to overwhelm her as the Man had been shoved to his knees before her, even as the male Elf's body had been dragged away from her. She had wished that the Man would open his eyes and look at her so that she might have given him some comfort, but he had kept them tightly closed, praying quietly.  
  
Sauron had nodded to a nearby orc, and the foul beast had drawn its sword, decapitating the Man with one stroke. Lachdúliel had sobbed in disbelieving horror as she had crawled forward to the limp body. The orc, with a dreadful grin upon his hideous face, had been holding the Man's head in one hand, blood from it spattering upon the floor with a sickening sound. It had thrown the head toward the body with a laugh, and she had grasped it gently with her shaking hands, placing it in its proper position before she had returned life to him.  
  
"Can you heal as well, she-Elf?" asked the Necromancer.  
  
She had nodded silently, her eyes remaining upon the Man. Eventually his eyes had opened, and she had smiled down at him in what she hoped was a reassuring manner, but his eyes had conveyed nothing but fear, and then anger, and after a moment, he had spoken.  
  
"Why did you not let me die?"  
  
The Elf had been taken aback by his words, never before having considered death to be a preferable choice to life.  
  
"I am sorry," she had murmured, uncertain of what else she could say to him.  
  
"Everyone here longs for death. Do not deny them their wish."  
  
She nodded as the orc that had killed the Man moved in again, brandishing its sword. But this time instead of killing the Man, the orc had simply cut off his hand and then had waited to see what Lachdúliel would do next.  
  
Faramir found himself filled with her fear. He shook his head a bit as if to clear his mind. Just to see Sauron's face through her memories was terrifying. And he understood now what she had meant when she had told him that they were now burdened by each other's pain.  
  
"What do you wish?" she asked the Man.  
  
"Let me bleed," he said thickly, so she sat next to him and did nothing until Sauron had her father brought before himself.  
  
"Heal the Man, or I shall kill your father." And she found herself in an impossible situation.  
  
Faramir took a breath to ease his fear, no, her fear to a manageable level. He thought how pathetic his life must seem to her when compared to all that she had endured thus far. His problems seemed petty now even to himself. 


End file.
